


Grown-Ups Making Grown-Up Choices

by Carrieosity



Series: Choices 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Awkward Flirting, Bottom Dean, Excessive Drinking, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Knotting, Lawyer Castiel, Light Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mechanic Dean, Miscommunication, Omega Dean, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rimming, Running, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Improvement, Sexual Harassment, Texting, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Castiel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-15 08:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9227825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: Dean is a grown-ass man - he can take perfectly good care of himself, thank you very much. Except that sometimes the easier or more fun choices aren't always the right or best ones, and, all right, maybe thinking ahead and working the long game isn't his strongest suit. It's fine! He's fine.When he meets Castiel, he realizes that flying by the seat of his pants may not be the best way to attract the super-serious (gorgeous, funny, genius) Alpha. Dean's shrink has been telling him he needs to start making "grown-up choices," and if that's what he has to think about in order to make Cas fall for him, then he'll give it a whirl.





	1. I'm a Grown-Ass Man

**Author's Note:**

> Speaking of grown-up choices, it's totally a good idea to start a new story when I have WIPs and a challenge in progress, right? Sure. 
> 
> I'm estimating this won't be too long, though - maybe a handful of chapters. Also, despite oblique references in this chapter, we're not diving headlong into angst and gender prejudice; it'll play some factor, but it's not the primary focus. Low angst!

"You know what the problem is, Dean," she said, tapping her pen on her tablet and smiling at him with a touch of severity. "We've been talking about this practically since day one. It's almost self-sabotage, at an unconscious level."

"At least you're not accusing me of deliberately shooting myself in the foot this time," he said, joking in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"This time," she agreed, latching onto the part of the joke he'd not really meant to attach. "Sometimes, it is about your self-worth difficulties and your struggle to believe you can have good things. Today, though, I think what you've been describing is probably more attributable to bad habits and inertia. When you get so used to doing things a certain way, making new habits can be difficult. Particularly when you aren't entirely in command of yourself, as when you've been drinking or when your hormones are at their peak."

Dean cringed inwardly. A part of him hated the assumptions, whatever truth they might have, that whatever actions he took were not always solely based in what he intended to do. It was a little too close to the archaic beliefs that body chemistry was an excuse for whatever terrible shit people wanted to pull, as well as a reason to shove some people into the gutter while popping a silver spoon between other people's teeth. Hell, why not just put "imbalance of bodily humors" back into the DSM? Dean believed firmly in free will; if he screwed up, it was his fault, not his biology. Or the fault of the alcohol that he  _ chose _ to drink - it hadn't crawled out of the bottle and into his mouth.

On the other hand, blaming his body sure did make an easy excuse when he was too embarrassed to admit the magnitude of his screw-ups.

"Here's what I don't get," he said, trying to change the direction of the conversation toward less scary ground, which never worked with Dr. Bradbury but had never stopped him before. "Some other guy has a bad day, he's bummed. So he goes into a bar, has a drink, maybe flirts a little. End of the night, he goes home with a new friend for some fun, or maybe he doesn't, and either way, he wakes up the next morning with no harm done. The bad day is over, and he moves on. But  _ I _ try the same thing, and  _ every damn time _ , it feels like, I flirt with somebody who turns out to be evil incarnate - or else they came in with them. Or if I don't flirt, because I don't  _ always _ need to go there, then somebody's coming after me, and I wind up in the same freaking dogpile, because it's never the nice, sane girl or guy who wants to buy me a drink, nope." He rolled his eyes dramatically.

"We've talked about avoiding the bar itself when you're having a bad day, you know."

"But, see, that's what I'm talking about! Other guys don't have to hide in their bedroom under their blankets every time shit hits the fan! Why can't I just do the normal thing, like everybody else? Why do I have to operate as though I'm cursed to always wind up in the worst case scenario?"

Dr. Bradbury sighed. "You're not cursed. I hesitate to even call you 'unlucky,' because even that plays into your idea that it's the world that's out to get you. You know it's not."

"History seems to disagree," he grumbled.

"Think it through a little more," she coaxed. "This past weekend - it wasn't a simple 'bad day,' was it? You were dealing with very specific triggers. The guys who came into the body shop, their unjustified and harmful remarks about you and your biology?" Dean shuddered and wanted to protest, but she raised a hand and kept talking. "It put you directly into an emotional tailspin of negative self-talk. That part was unavoidable and completely out of your hands. But we've talked about what you can do when you feel that coming on, haven't we? Channeling it into positive physical exertion, writing in your journal, going to spend time with family and friends who love you and can help build you back up? Going drinking in a bar is nowhere on that list. Even your hypothetical 'normal guy' - who doesn't exist, by the way, because everybody has problems - should probably find better methods to cope with his emotions than drowning them, but there are particular times for  _ anybody _ when they should avoid that path."

"Okay, I get it." Dean hated it, but he knew that he had stepped in it with that choice. "But everything after that - "

" - was related to and affected by the setting and your impaired ability to handle it. You were hating on yourself, and you made it harder to handle by imbibing and by being in a location where you'd have to interact with strangers. And, Dean, as much as you hate to admit it and I hate to mention it as a factor…"

"Then don't?" he suggested half-heartedly.

"Sorry, it's relevant." The psychiatrist put down her tablet and looked at him with sympathetic eyes, which made him close his own in defense. "You knew you were heading into your heat. The guys at the shop scented it on you, which prompted their initial remarks that put the whole catastrophe into action. You were angry and defensive, and you  _ had _ to know it was going to come up again at the bar. So why on earth would you go in there in the first place? I am  _ not  _ saying you asked to be harassed - nobody deserves that. But you knew your ability to handle social interaction was impaired even before you took your first drink."

"So you're saying it  _ was _ my fault."

"A person with animal allergies doesn't deserve the sneezing and hives, and it's understandable that they might choose to go into an animal shelter and feel sad, even while they react. I'm less sympathetic if they shout at the animals, call the volunteers names, and punch the people who are there adopting pets."

Dean couldn't help chuckling at his own expense, even while he was still feeling sorry for himself. "Not exactly the same as an allergy," he protested. "And what if the volunteers were calling the dude names for sneezing?"

"I'm not defending your attackers, Dean. Do you disagree that you've dealt with them in better ways before? You threw the first punch, and you admitted being so drunk that you almost missed."

"Yeah, okay. That was bad."

"You're lucky the bartender knew you and was sympathetic, or you might have had to deal with your heat in a jail cell, instead of just having your brother called to escort you home."

Dean sniffed. "Yeah, to what might as well have been a cell."

"Dean." She frowned at him.

"Hey, you've never seen that moose act as a warden," he said with an eyeroll. "I'd have stood a better chance of escaping the jail cell than of getting out of my apartment again for those next few days."

"Your brother worries because he cares about you." Dr. Bradbury glanced at her watch. "Look, we're obviously still working on this, but I just want you to keep trying to remember what we've discussed. You argue so much about being in control of your own fate, and that's a good mentality to carry. Now you need to remember the flip-side: you're  _ responsible _ for your own fate. That means that both your decisions and the consequences are yours, along with the way you choose to react to situations and the actions of others."

Dean stood, smirking. "Just like kindergarten, right? Make good choices?"

She smiled back, wagging her head a little. "Well, perhaps a little beyond kindergarten. How about this? Make  _ grown-up _ choices."

"I think I might be a little offended by that," he said, wincing at the implication.

"Don't be," she said. "God knows, there are days when all I want to do is skip work, stay in my fuzzy pajamas, and eat Lucky Charms cereal in front of cartoons. Nobody wants to be a grown-up all the time, Dean. It's just important to remember that if we consistently choose the other path, we've got nobody to blame but ourselves when the mortgage is due and we have nothing but cereal box prizes with which to pay it."

\---

Later, standing in the middle of the grocery store and staring at the shelves, Dean laughed under his breath. "Hey, doc, I'm  _ choosing _ to react to your analogy. My own free will and everything." He grabbed a few boxes of Lucky Charms and tossed them into his cart. "Not my fault you got me craving them," he muttered with a shrug.

His cart was heavy with boxes and bags, all needed to replenish what had been a fairly empty pantry and fridge even before he'd been trapped at home and unable to get out for a diner burger or a pizza. Sam had been appalled at the selection he'd had on hand and had insisted that Dean promise to hit the store and restock ("With real food this time, Dean! Not just ramen noodles and Pop Tarts!") after his appointment today. Dean was just happy he'd made "parole"; he hadn't been joking about Sam's adamant refusal to let him so much as open the door for Chinese delivery over the past few days.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Dean," he'd said, planting himself on the sofa with an air of stubborn finality. "It's that when you get like this, it's almost like you start doubling down on daring the universe to come at you. Just wait it out, get your head back together, okay?"

It was almost as though every weird quirk of their upbringing had manifested one way for Dean and the opposite for his baby brother. Sam was  _ perfectly _ suited to channeling his negative thoughts into journaling or a run - if he even had any negative thoughts, which Dean sometimes doubted. The dude meditated by  _ choice _ . That was certainly nothing their dad had ever instilled in them. On his very best days, Dean might have privately wondered whether Sam's level-headedness had anything to do with Dean's own protectiveness toward the kid during Sam's formative years, but that was just a fleeting thought, and it usually made him blush. More likely, it was just a fluke of genetics.

Paying for his groceries (which may or may not have included a few boxes of Apple Pie Pop Tarts, because grown-ass men pick their own groceries), Dean headed home and unloaded the bags into his kitchen. For a moment, staring balefully at the piles on his counter and floor, he was tempted to leave it for later, but his appointment was too recent in his memory for him to be able to ignore the nagging voice in his head telling him that "adults don't leave the groceries all over the place, even if most of them are dry stuff that doesn't need refrigerated." Grumbling a bit, he put them all away.

And then he glared around, realizing that, while he was hungry, he wasn't hungry for any of  _ that _ .

_ A burger at the Roadhouse _ , he thought. And, hey, he still needed to apologize for that scene from last weekend, which he hadn't been able to do before now. So going over there was actually the responsible thing to do, right? Of course it was, he decided, smiling and happy that his rationalizing enabled him to do what he really wanted to do, anyway.

Hopping back into the driver's seat, Dean pulled out his phone and dialed. Honestly, now that this hell of a weekend was over, and after being able to process it with the doc, he was feeling much more clear-headed and, truthfully, a little embarrassed and guilty, particularly about how Sam had gotten roped into the mess. There was no way Sam deserved to have to play guard over his older brother like he had; closer to forty than thirty, now, it was ridiculous that Dean should need a babysitter for this sort of thing. God, it had to have been mortifying for him; Dean flushed hot and squirmed, thinking about it. And it was a stupidly new dynamic; when Dean had first presented as an omega as a teenager, their dad had promptly put him on suppressants so strong he'd felt tranquilized half the time. By the time John died and Dean decided that a life spent half-zonked was no life at all, Sam was off at college and didn't have to witness the hormonal roller-coaster as things tried to level out.

And now there was no choice at all, since doctors had decided that those earlier suppressants were actually dangerous enough to be made illegal, and Dean's having used them for years meant that no doctor wanted to risk prescribing him even the most gentle suppressant now. Instead, every couple of months, Dean got to deal with the whole freak show: wild emotions, almost uncontrollable urges, and smelling like a delicious little princess birthday cake to any alpha walking by on the street. Fuck his life, seriously. 

Honestly, he didn't think he would have even minded most of the hassles of his biology if it weren't for how absolutely out of his hands so much of it was. Back to having no choice about his heats, no choice but to put up with other people's opinions about who he supposedly was. If it were just sex, hey, at least he saved on lube, and he'd never had any real convictions about being a bottom or a top, anyway, so long as everybody walked away satisfied. Sex was something you  _ did _ , not the sum total of who you  _ were _ .

"Sam!" he said when his brother picked up.  _ Bite the bullet _ , he thought. "Look, man, I owe you an apology. How about a burger on me tonight?"

"A burger?" Sam sounded incredulous. "Dude, I helped you out because you're my brother, not for some kind of payment, but if I  _ did _ need repaying, you think a burger would do it?"

"Well, I was thinking one of Ellen's, so...maybe?"

Sam paused. "All right, maybe. But that's not the point! And anyway, you were supposed to go grocery shopping today."

"I did!" Dean protested.

"So why are you going out for food? The whole point of groceries is to be able to eat at home."

Sighing, Dean said, "None of it looked good."

There was a long moment of silence. "Dean, you're like the worst kind of nineteen-year-old. Your oven probably has dirty dishes in it, doesn't it?"

"No."  _ That would imply I've used dishes any time recently. _

"Well, I happen to be near the Roadhouse now, anyway. I was supposed to meet a colleague at the deli across the street. Would you mind if I asked him to join us for dinner?"

Hesitating, Dean considered. "You guys gonna talk lawyer stuff the whole time?"

Sam laughed. "Nope. We agreed to leave that at the office. Strictly casual conversation only, or else we'll end up arguing. It's an occupational hazard, and there aren't enough people at the office either of us can tolerate, so we're not taking chances."

"Okay, fine, bring the guy."

"Oh, but Dean?" Sam said, sounding serious. "Could you not piss him off? Like I said, I want to keep Cas as a friend, not have you scare him away."

"Dude! I can behave!"

They hung up, and Dean drove the rest of the way feeling affronted, but knowing Sam's worries were at least couched in current evidence. "New day, better decisions," he promised himself. He heard Dr. Bradbury in his head, advising him:  _ Make grown-up choices. _ "'Nineteen-year-old,' my ass," he growled. Slamming the car door, he steeled himself to go inside...and beg forgiveness for the less adult choices on recent record. 


	2. Oh, Don't Mind Me

Just because he'd used it to rationalize his dinner out didn't mean that Dean was particularly eager to go in and face Ellen to apologize for fighting with other patrons. He wasn't  _ scared _ , per se...nope, scratch that, he decided. He could admit it. Ellen was one scary lady when she was mad. He crossed his fingers that the week that had elapsed since the incident would have taken her down to a simmer, but she was more than capable of holding a grudge.

He stood fidgeting outside the bar next to his car, rehearsing the apology that he hoped would sound the most heartfelt (and result in the least likelihood of ear-twisting), until he heard the sound of a quiet motor beside him. Parking his Prius, Sam climbed out, grinning. "You know you have it coming, and you can't hide out here forever," he said.

"Shut up, bitch. I totally can," Dean muttered. "And when are you gonna grow up and get yourself a real car, trade in this toy thing?" He rolled his eyes at the hybrid. His heart wasn't in their traditional argument. As far as procrastination techniques went, though, it was a pretty reliable one. They'd been lightheartedly teasing each other's vehicles practically since they were old enough to drive.

"A hybrid car is not a toy," said an unexpected voice from the other side of Sam's car. Dean hadn't noticed his brother's passenger, but he definitely did now. The voice was deep and rough, stirring something low in Dean's gut. He turned to find the source, the vocal timbre leading him to expect a barrel-chested guy with an entire pack of cigarettes hanging out of his mouth.  

Instead, he found his eyes immediately caught, unable to glance away, from the most intense alpha gaze he'd ever felt in his life, and he promptly lost all ability to process complex thought.  _ Blue, _ his brain suggested, and his body quickly agreed that, yes, blue was the absolute best color in the universe, particularly the blue of the eyes staring deeply into his own. He registered that the man had said something else and was now tilting his head confusedly ( _ adorably! _ ) at Dean's lack of response.

"Blue," Dean said, holding out his hand. Then his brain caught up, and he winced. "Dean! I mean Dean! My name," he sputtered. The other man looked even more confused, and Sam seemed torn between appalled embarrassment and laughter. "Let me try again?" he sighed. 

"If you think it'll help," the man said.

"Dean, this is Cas. I told you I was bringing a colleague, remember?" Sam stepped forward, gripping Dean's shoulder firmly. "And Cas, this is my older brother, Dean. I promise, he's not normally so…" He shook his head. "What was that, anyway? Awkward surrealism?"

Dean would have made a sarcastic remark, but he was afraid it would come out backward and inside-out, making him look even more idiotic. Instead, he just glared hard at Sam, and he missed noticing Cas taking a step forward to grasp the hand he'd forgotten that he was still extending.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean," he said, voice rumbling warmly. His words were slow and careful; Dean hoped that was just his typical way of speaking, not something he was doing because he thought Dean was dim-witted. He wore a serious expression, not laughing at the mess of an introduction, and Dean couldn't decide whether that was positive or negative.

"Good to meet you, too," he tried, relieved that his brain-to-mouth connection didn't fail him this time. On the other hand, he realized he'd unconsciously slipped into a lower vocal register of his own. He noticed Cas's hand tense in his grip, and he hoped the man didn't think he was making fun of him. He didn't  _ smell _ angry. No, on the contrary; what small notes Dean could detect through the professional scent blockers worn for work by most of the attorneys at Sam's firm were tantalizingly inviting. He fought the urge to lean forward a little, just to get a stronger scent…

Sam cleared his throat. Dean suddenly became aware that what had started as a handshake was now decidedly  _ holding hands _ . He quickly released Cas's hand, seeing a slight flush creep up the other man's neck toward the base of the stubble gracing his jaw. Sam now looked more aggravated than embarrassed, and Dean knew that his sudden drop in ability to function was really pushing his brother's patience levels. He was just relieved that, between his beta brother's less-sensitive nose and the blockers he himself was wearing, at least Sam wasn't also picking up on the happy little connections his body was now drawing between the newly-beloved color blue and the soft traces of cinnamon and clove-scented sexiness floating in the air around him.

"So, who's hungry? I could really use a burger right now! Sam, let's get in there and get you something to eat, too - get 'em to throw a whole head of lettuce on top, just for you." Dean clapped his hands and spun on his heel, striding toward the door to escape the mortifying scene. He'd rather face down an entire pack of angry bar owners than spend another minute out here, humiliating himself more with every passing moment.

Inside, he grabbed a booth by the bar. He reached for the menu to hide his face, even though he probably could have written it out perfectly from memory, and he rarely varied in his orders, anyway. Sam and Cas slid into the other side of the booth, Sam still aiming a mild bitch-face at Dean. There was uncomfortable silence as Cas studied the menu and the brothers pretended to do the same. Dean would have breathed a sigh of relief at the arrival of the waitress, if only it had been someone else.

_ Bang! _ A mug of beer hit the table hard in front of Sam, making all three men jump. Jo glared challengingly at Dean, arms folded. "Well, hello, stranger."

"Jo," he said, smiling weakly. "Just who I wanted to see. Uh, your mom around?"

"Yep," she said, popping the last letter between her lips. "And she's been waiting for you to show your sorry face. I thought you'd be too chicken to come in and face her for at least another week."

"What, underestimating me again?" He tried for cocky, missed, and landed somewhere less stable. "I'll talk to her."

"Good. She won't let me bring you your drink until you do, and I don't feel like being caught in the middle of this." She rolled her eyes, then abruptly smiled brightly at Cas. "And how about you? You're new!" 

"Jo, this is a friend from work," Sam said quickly, eager to change topics. 

Cas held out his hand, which Jo shook firmly. "Castiel Novak," he said, smiling politely. 

"Castiel?" Dean blurted. All three turned to stare at him, and he gripped his menu again, wishing fervently that Ellen had allowed him a beer. "Um...it's an...unusual name, is all."

"Yes," Cas said, frowning. He looked self-conscious, grimacing for a moment. "It's the name of an angel. My father was fairly devout."

"I like it!" Dean protested. Cas looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Dean just shrugged. "It sounds cool and mysterious, like you're some kind of bad-ass superhero or something." Cas kept staring, but the corners of his mouth twitched a little.

"Dean," Sam sighed. "Just...why don't you go talk to Ellen now? Jo doesn't want to have to wait all night to take your order."

"Yeah, okay." Breathing deeply, Dean pushed himself off the bench and made his way toward the bar, where he now saw Ellen polishing some rocks glasses with perhaps a bit more focus than was required.

The apology did not proceed in as straightforward a manner as he had hoped. "Dean, I just want you to answer me one thing," Ellen said, giving him a hard stare in response to his attempt. "When you walked in here that night, were you looking for a fight?"

"No!" he spluttered. "Of course I wasn't! I'd never - "

"Then were you looking to take over Benny's job as bouncer?"

"Ellen…"

"Because you know I don't stand for harassment of any kind in this bar. If you've got problems with drunk knothead idiots, you should know by now that all you have to do is say the word or give a nod. I don't want 'em here, and we've made that pretty clear in the past. Hell, you've been coming here long enough to know that! Instead of letting me and Benny do our jobs, though, and keep everything nice and neat, you decided to start brawling. So you're either suffering from memory loss, or else you came in here looking for somebody to punch. Now, I've seen you grin and sass back to worse than the crap Jo told me those guys were shoveling, so I know where to put my money."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "It's possible I was having a shit day."

Ellen nodded. "We all do sometimes. Don't mean we have to spread the joy around. Next time, you need to decide: do you want a drink, or do you want a fight? You want a drink, you come here, and I can help. You want a fight...well, this ain't the place to be. Too many other idiots happy to oblige, and too many breakable items lying around." She glared at the glasses she'd been wiping.

"Yeah. I'll remember."

She sighed. "Look, you know I'm sympathetic. I'm just glad you didn't get yourself hurt too much before we broke it all up. If you were anybody else, starting fights in here, I'd say you weren't welcome back, but…" Ellen shrugged. "Just don't do it again, okay?"

Feeling like he'd gotten off easy, Dean breathed a sigh of relief as Ellen grudgingly handed him his beer. He walked back to the table and sat down with a sheepish grin for Sam. "All better now," he said. "All appendages left intact."

"Dare I ask why they were at risk?" Cas said, tilting his head curiously. He was halfway through his own drink by now and was looking more relaxed than when Dean had left. Dean didn't particularly want to get into the story of the fight; something told him that Cas wasn't the sort of guy to find that type of thing amusing. 

Sam, unfortunately, was not interested in preserving Dean's dignity. "He got into a fight here last weekend. Apparently, he thought the best way to deal with a group of rude alphas making crude comments was with his fists." Yeah, Sam was still aggravated, too, apparently.

Cas's jaw tensed a bit. Dean bit his tongue and ran a hand over his face.  _ Great. Now he thinks I'm a violent jerk with a drinking problem _ . "It's not as bad as it sounds," he said. "There were just two guys, and if I hadn't already had a drink or two,"  _ or five…  _ "I could have handled them just fine, without a lot of mess." The excuses sounded weak even to himself; Cas certainly didn't look reassured.

Looking around the bar with narrowed eyes, Cas said, "Does this sort of thing happen often here? I'm surprised." He sounded a little strained, as though he was choosing his words carefully. _ Trying not to offend Sam by calling his brother stupid _ , Dean thought.  _ Of course, Sam would probably join in and agree with him. They wouldn't be wrong, either. God, I'm such a moron. _

"No, Ellen keeps a good place," he assured Cas, trying to appear unconcerned. "Keeps an eye on everyone and usually cuts folks off before they can drink enough to do too much damage." Now Cas looked even more tense, and his scent was turning into something burnt and bitter-smelling. Dean tried running back through his words, looking for what he'd said wrong. "I mean, I've never seen a fight get too bad when I've been here. Most I personally have ever gotten was a sprained wrist, and I really had that coming…"

"What Dean  _ means _ to say," Sam cut in, as Cas's eyes got wider and he looked as though he was about to rain down righteous fire upon brawlers and those who would enable them, "is that Ellen's bar is like a second home for us and a lot of other folks, and Ellen is kind of an adopted mom. Step out of line, and she smacks you with her spoon, so to speak." He chuckled. "But you don't have to worry or anything."

"I wasn't worried," Cas muttered. "I was just…" He paused, then shook his head. "It's been a long day. Perhaps I should be getting home soon."

Dean hated that idea. He hated that Cas was leaving, leaving before they'd had a chance to talk much, and that he was leaving while he still smelled so unsettled. But part of him was whispering that maybe it was for the best, because Sam was totally wrong in his assumption that Cas was worried about getting caught in a melee. His scent wasn't  _ worried _ at all (and Dean privately thought that it was a good thing Sam mainly did contract and estate work instead of criminal law, where interpreting scents would be more critical). Cas smelled  _ angry. _ He was angry and disgusted about something, and Dean had a sinking feeling that it was about him.

Sam protested that Cas hadn't gotten to eat dinner yet, and Cas compromised on having a burger packed up to take home with him. Conversation settled on small talk about frustrating coworkers and local gossip, but Dean couldn't bring himself to participate in the discussions at all. He felt ridiculous for being upset; after all, there had never been a chance that a guy this gorgeous, smart, and put-together would ever be into a hot mess like him. Why be disappointed about confirmation of the inevitable?

_ Negative self-talk, _ he could practically hear Dr. Bradbury whispering. He snorted a little as he reached for his beer. Cas looked up at him, squinting a little in a questioning way. Dean just shook his head.

_ Guys like me don't… _ He stopped, thought trailing off.  _ Guys like me… _ But that was why he'd been going to the counselor, right? What was all the talk about "growth" and "direction" for, after all, if it wasn't so he could  _ stop _ being a "guy like him"? All those assignments, all the exercises and stuff she had him doing - maybe he just hadn't been taking it seriously enough. But what if he did? Would the Dean who meditated and journaled and took multivitamins be the kind of guy who  _ didn't _ ruin his chances for good things before he even got started?

_ I can fix this, _ he decided.  _ One whole new me, coming right up.  _


	3. He'll Be A Strong Man (Oh, Honey...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of these chapters are beta'ed; this one is barely proofread. I'm tired. See anything weird, let me know. Ten points if you recognize the title. ;)

Something like three-quarters of all great plans take shape over alcohol. Dean had heard that somewhere, though he couldn't quite remember where or who said it, and now that he thought about it, it might have been a beer commercial. Whatever; it justified what he was doing now, so he wasn't inclined to examine it too closely.

Dean was a "rip off the Bandaid" kind of person, the kind of guy who jumps right into the deep water with both feet instead of cautiously sliding into the shallows. (That time that he'd jumped, both feet, into what had turned out to be cleverly disguised shallows didn't bear mentioning - unless you were Sam, who mentioned it every time they went to the beach.) Once he had an idea in mind, he didn't see any point in debating it. As soon as Sam and Cas left the bar, therefore, Dean grabbed a napkin and one of those tiny golf pencils they kept around for Trivia Night, and he started brainstorming. He thought, wrote, scratched things out, and wrote some more, tongue poked firmly between his lips as he concentrated.

He was working so hard, and consequently drinking mindlessly enough, that he barely noticed the passing of time, or that the occupancy of the bar dwindled and shifted away from "random street crowd" toward "folks so regular, they're nearly kin." He was startled when a shoulder suddenly knocked into his, as another person slid into the booth next to him.

"Whatcha writing there, Winchester?" Ash drawled, looking sleepy. Knowing the sort of hours Ash typically kept, it was more likely that he was just waking up than that he was nearing the end of his day. His reddened eyes were mirrored by Andy, who nearly collapsed onto the seat opposite. "Big schemes afoot?"

"Just thinking," Dean said, stretching his arms overhead and noticing with some shock that it was now past midnight. 

"Thinking's good," Ash said with a nod. "Good place for it, too." He raised a hand to wave at Jo, who grinned back. Her girlfriend, Meg, had arrived at some point, and Jo seemed in no hurry to leave the place at the bar where she was leaning forward to practically nuzzle her as they spoke.

"Hey, let me ask you guys something," Dean said, tapping his pencil and glancing over the napkin. "When you think about somebody who, like, has it 'together' - someone just really good at life - what's that look like to you?"

"The Old Spice guy," Andy said, furrowing his brow. "Or maybe that Dos Equis guy - the Most Interesting Dude, or whatever." 

"No, that's not…" Dean shook his head in frustration. "Okay, maybe it's a little like what I mean. But what I mean is how did they  _ get _ like that?" Two confused faces stared back at him, mouths hanging slightly open. He sighed and tried again. "You know how they say we're the sum of the choices we make?"

"Who says that?"

"I don't know... _ they _ do. Not the point." He was getting more frustrated. "So in order to be successful adults, we have to make adult choices.  _ Not like porn _ ," he added with a quick scowl at Andy, who had opened his mouth and quickly shut it again. "The  _ other  _ kind of adult choices."

"Okay, so what are those?" Ash said, thoughtfully. "You mean, like, paying taxes?"

Dean snorted. "Don't try to make me believe  _ you  _ pay taxes, Ash. That was probably the first computer system you hacked, just to teach yourself the basics." Ash smirked and didn't confirm or deny. He was a computer genius, but the work he did on a freelance basis for most of the companies around town was just the tip of the iceberg; nobody was sure what he actually did with his enormous skillset, because he would mutter things about "plausible deniability" when he was asked.

"Adult choices...like, making a will?" Andy suggested hesitantly, visibly nervous about getting scolded again. Dean reached across the table and punched him in the shoulder encouragingly.

"Yeah, now you've got it!" Dean said, and Andy grinned while rubbing his arm. "Except that's creepy and morbid, so I'll put it down pretty far on the list."

"Let me see that list," a female voice said, and Meg's manicured hand reached across the table and snatched up the napkin. Alpha to her core, Meg never hesitated to jump into the center of conversations as though she had a standing invitation. Dean was used to it, though. She glanced over his list, pursing her lips. "Not bad. I don't do half this shit, though. That mean I'm not a grown-up?"

"Well, you are hanging out with us, in a bar, at one in the morning," Ash said.

"Touche." Meg finished reading and handed it back. "I like the part about eating vegetable and reading the newspaper. If you start doing P90X or golfing, though, I'll pretend we've never met."

Dean shuddered. "Wouldn't expect anything else. Any other suggestions?"

"You could cut back on the drinking," Jo called from the bar, "but then we might have to shut down."

"What about family stuff?" Andy tried again. "Like getting married and having kids?"

Dean had a sudden vision of Cas in his kitchen, a wedding ring on his finger, and a couple of toddlers scampering around his feet. Part of him panicked and forgot how to breathe for a second; another part of him was astonished to realize that he  _ could _ actually picture that. Not tomorrow, of course, but...maybe someday.

"Immediate stuff first," Meg was advising. "You can't make it to the altar without a partner, and you need to  _ look _ like an adult for that. No offense, Dean, but the wardrobe...lumberjack goes to a rock concert, maybe?"

"But no offense intended," Dean grumbled, looking at his AC/DC tee.  _ Wonder what Cas thought, _ he wondered.  _ Him in his lawyer suit, me looking like an overgrown teenager.  _ This hadn't started as an exercise in making himself feel awful, but it was starting to head in that direction. Before he could fall too far, he grabbed the pencil and decisively circled a handful of ideas.

"Just to keep it manageable," he said. "I don't want to try to change too many things at once. This'll do for a start."

"What's up with this, anyway?" Ash asked. "Why do you need to start doing all that? A salad once in a while won't kill you - not that I'd know, but I hear things. But choosing your menu based on a life plan sketched on a bar napkin seems sort of weird, man. Kind of sudden, too."

"It's as good a strategy as any," Dean hedged, trying for playfulness. When Ash just looked at him skeptically, he sighed. "Do I really look like a successful adult? C'mon, look at me."

"You look like Dean. I like Dean. He's a good guy."

Dean ducked his head, rolling his eyes a little. "Yeah, well, maybe I could be better."

"In a suit, with a newspaper under your arm?"

"Maybe...maybe I just want to be the guy who  _ could _ wear a suit, talk about the stock market, and have people look up to me and take me seriously." He flushed, not having meant to say all that so bluntly.

"Well, more power to you," Meg said. "Call me on 'Dean Makeover Day.' I want in on that action." Jo hooted loud agreement, and Dean rolled his eyes again.

On his way out the door, Dean stopped to give Ellen a quick hug. He felt a wash of relief that the tension between them had dissipated; Ellen was one of the few rocks of stability in his life, and he always felt unsettled when she was upset with him. She squeezed him around the shoulders. 

"Heard your conversation, and I know you didn't ask, but I'd like to add my own suggestion," she said softly. "I'm all for anything that makes you happier and healthier, but...successful grown-ups make those choices because they make  _ them  _ happier. They don't do it for anybody else. You just make sure you remember that."

"Thanks, Ellen," Dean said. 

Her words echoed in his head as he drove home.  _ This  _ is  _ for me, _ he decided.  _ It's for future me, the better guy. _ He imagined himself smiling serenely, charming in a waistcoat, flirting eloquently without tripping over his words or making an ass of himself over a sexy voice and a perfect face.  _ Still not exactly sure how all this will work to get me there, but we'll see. _

\---

**DAY ONE**

Things were not starting the way Dean had hoped. Rather, things were going a little  _ too _ smoothly for his tastes, as though the universe had decided that it was one hundred percent on board with the New-and-Improved Dean Winchester Plan. He'd felt all confident and proactive when he'd called the dentist first thing this morning, but he'd foolishly assumed that the phone call would be the only part of the ordeal he'd have to confront today. Surely the appointment itself would be at least a few weeks away -  _ nobody _ gets same-day dental appointments, right?

Wrong. 

The problem arose when he tried to book an appointment with Dr. Robert, who he remembered as a kindly old man who gave lollipops after cleanings (thereby ensuring repeat business, Dean cynically guessed). Perhaps that memory should have been his first clue, since he'd obviously been young enough then to have been  _ given a lollipop. _ Dr. Robert had retired fifteen years ago, the confused assistant informed him; how long had it been since Dean's last check-up? Dean mumbled a reply, she managed to somehow type judgmentally, and it turned out that - hurray! - Dr. Visyak had a last-minute cancellation this afternoon! Dean should probably rush in before all his teeth spontaneously fell out, her perky offer implied.

In order to take his mind off the appointment to come - which was just a cleaning and check-up! Nothing horrible! - Dean decided to address Grown-up Choice Number Two. Tying the laces on a pair of sneakers previously only used for yard work, Dean reassured himself that this would be an easy change. Sam ran every day! Little kids run more than they walk! Just a few times around the block, he thought. Maybe he'd even manage to pull off one of those "runner's highs" to make him feel better.

Dean did not get a runner's high. Two blocks of running left him sweating, gasping, and a little pissed.  _ Maybe that's enough for today,  _ he thought, before noticing a group of school kids across the street watching him with grins. Quietly cursing, he forced himself upright and back into a trot. 

By the time he returned home, his feet were aching, his shirt was drenched, and he'd decided that jogging was an elaborate prank for which he'd fallen like a chump. He sprawled on the grass to "stretch," and was only able to drag himself back up when he realized he had just enough time to shower and get dressed before heading out.

\---

Being cocky is tricky when there's a pair of hands in one's mouth. Cockiness being Dean's default response to extreme nervousness, though, he was certainly doing his best.

"Mr. Winchester, how often are you flossing?"

"Mrrrrrrrph, mph mph."

"Hmmm, that's really not often enough. Actually, I'm sort of amazed that things are going as well as they are in here, based on how long it's been, but...well, we'll talk more after the x-rays."

"Mmmmmph?!"

Dr. Visyak was a no-nonsense alpha; she didn't believe at all that omegas needed to be coddled or pampered. To her credit, though, when she saw just how pale Dean's face grew when she told him just how many cavities needed to be filled, she quietly asked the hygienist to bring in the "good stuff" for him. 

"Don't you worry, Mr. Winchester. I'm making your case a priority for this afternoon, and we'll have you all patched up as quickly as we can." Of course he was a priority; his mouth would probably end up paying her rent this month, he figured with a cringe. When she offered him a tiny dose of something to "calm him down," he resigned himself to the inevitable teasing and called to ask Sam for a ride home afterward.

Nearly three hours later, Dean leaned drowsily on Sam's shoulder as he made his way out of the Dr. Visyak's office. He was definitely feeling no pain (yet), but the sheer volume of Novocaine in his mouth had him drooling and mumbling when he tried to speak. His head was foggy, and all he wanted was to go home and collapse onto his sofa.

He'd expected Sam to mock him, but he hadn't at all. He'd seemed a little surprised at the spontaneous dental work, but after that, he'd regarded Dean with a weird mix of horrified sympathy and, for some reason, pride.

"You hate going to the dentist," he explained as they walked through the lobby. " _ I _ hate going to the dentist. Heck, I haven't been for  _ years _ . You're making me look bad now." He chuckled as he waved at the receptionist. Dean tried to wave, too, but his arm felt a little too heavy.

"Hope you don't mind," Sam continued, "but we have to make a stop on our way to your place. Cas's car is making a noise again, so I told him I'd give him a lift." Dean forced his lids to open wider and saw, with horror, Cas sitting in the front passenger seat of Sam's waiting vehicle. He was watching Dean approach with huge eyes and a look of anxiety.

"No, not now," Dean mumbled, though his lips were so numb that it came out unintelligibly. A line of drool escaped, and he wanted to die on the spot.

"Come on, Dean. It won't take that much longer. Cas actually only lives a couple of streets away from you, so it's right on our way." Sam opened the back door and tried to guide Dean in. Dean didn't actually need as much bodily support as Sam seemed to think he did; he simply found that his legs were refusing to carry him into this mortifying situation.

"Are you all right?" Cas said, turning to stare at him. "Sam told me you had a dental appointment, but he didn't say it was so serious."

"I'm fine, it's fine," Dean tried to say, failing massively. He wiped at his mouth with his hand and attempted a smile; judging from the way Cas's face became more concerned and his faint scent, already tinged with sourness, grew more acrid, that was also a failure.

"Dean's fine. He's tough," Sam said jokingly as he slid into the car. "Probably would have just bit on a belt to get through it, if the dentist hadn't needed access to his mouth." Cas glanced at Sam disapprovingly; Dean tried not to groan. 

The whole way to Cas's house, blue eyes watched Dean in the mirror. Dean wondered whether he was adding checkmarks to the "mentally unbalanced" column, so he did his level best to sit up straight and behave as though he was unaffected by his swollen mouth. The medication was quickly wearing off, and he was beginning to feel the edges of the soreness that would soon be upon him. He knew the pain was starting to trickle into his own scent when Sam suddenly glanced back at him.

"You need me to run by a pharmacy or something? You have some Tylenol at home?" Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak anymore. "Okay, good," Sam said. "Might want to put some frozen peas on your mouth, too."

Cas was fidgeting.  _ He wants to get out of the car, get away from me, _ Dean thought sadly. When they pulled up in front of his house, Cas climbed out and paused for a moment, looking back at him. "I hope you feel better soon," he said. Then he closed the door and walked quickly away.

Dean could barely summon the energy to thank Sam for the lift when he got home. Sam offered to pick him up for work in the morning so he could run back for the Impala, and Dean nodded acceptance before waving and stumbling through his door.  _ Screw the Tylenol, _ he thought.  _ Screw the peas. Screw consciousness. _ This day was officially fired.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://carrieosity.tumblr.com), where I'm hiding from the dentist myself. (Horrible dental-phobe, c'est moi.)


	4. Hungry for Love (and Soup)

Dean woke up with the fabric pattern of his sofa cushions pressed into the side of his face, a thin line of drool dried along his cheek. Rubbing his eyes, he experimentally tightened his lips along his gums and ran his tongue along his teeth, then winced. It wasn't terrible, but it didn't feel great. Thankfully, it was Saturday, and he didn't have to worry about going to work at the auto shop this morning, so he had the whole day to wallow and feel sorry for himself, if he wanted.

The moment that thought crossed his mind, however, it was met with the argument that this was precisely what he  _ shouldn't _ do. He had a plan! There was no way he was going to let his plan fall to the wayside because of one shitty day. Besides, as awful as the appointment had turned out, the fact remained that he had been successful. He'd made the appointment,  _ kept _ the appointment, and made it through the whole thing.

With a sudden flash of memory, Dean recalled how it had ended, with him looking like a literal drooling moron in front of Castiel. He would have clapped his hands over his burning face if his cheeks hadn't felt so sore. No matter what Dr. Bradbury said, it was really hard to believe sometimes that the universe was not out to destroy him.

Twisting sideways along the sofa, he pulled his phone from his back pocket to check the time, noticing that he'd somehow missed an evening call from his brother. Wondering what Sam needed, he punched the button to call him back, closing his eyes and trying to muster some energy for the day.

"Hey, Dean!" said Sam, sounding cheerful. "How you feeling this morning?"

"Like crap," Dean said flatly. He didn't see any point in sugar-coating things for Sam; his brother knew him well enough to know when he was pretending, anyway.

"Ouch, sore mouth?"

"Gee, I don't know," Dean grumbled. "How do you think I feel after about twenty elephant needles in jammed into my gums and hours of drilling into my teeth?"

"Yikes. Sorry. I guess...I mean, I'm sorry about yesterday, too. Like, if I was, you know…"

Dean frowned, shaking his head and feeling too tired to parse whatever the hell Sam was trying to say. "Spit it out, dude."

"Just, I…" Sam sighed. "Upon reflection, I  _ might _ have been maybe a little...inconsiderate? Uncaring?"

"What?" Dean felt baffled by the conversation. "The hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know! I just...It came to my attention that I was being...rough?" Sam sounded as uncomfortable as Dean had ever heard him.

Latching on to the weirdest part of the weird apology, Dean said, "It 'came to your attention'?"

"I mean, I realized. I, um, thought about it and decided. Like, in hindsight?"

There was awkward silence for a moment. Finally, Dean broke it. "You know, if this is how you 'lawyer,' I may have to rethink my plan to have you defend my ass if I ever wind up arrested."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Whatever, bitch."

"Anyway," Sam exhaled heavily and went on, the familiar exchange of insults having done the job of lightening the mood, "you need anything? I can bring you some soup or something, if you're not up to chewing anything."

"Hey, I can cook!" Dean protested. "Don't need you taking care of me."

"I never said you did, Dean. Just wanted to make the offer." Sam still sounded a little guilty, for some reason, which was freaking Dean out a bit. He had no idea what had gotten into his brother; as far as he could remember, nothing that had passed between them yesterday had been different from their usual teasing.

After they said their goodbyes, Dean sat up, groaning, and pushed himself to a standing position. Immediately, he wished he hadn't. Apparently, even though he'd felt ridiculously weak and out of shape with the short distance he'd been able to run the day before, it had been far enough to make his thighs and butt ache as though they'd been punched repeatedly. He groaned again, trying to stretch his leg muscles, which helped only a little. 

Now he really felt like wallowing in self-pity. The only problem with that strategy was that Sam's mention of food had made his stomach start to complain, reminding him that he'd skipped dinner the night before. Soup sounded like a damn fine idea, since using his teeth would be painful at the moment. He could even kill two birds with one stone! One part of his plan was to "eat more vegetables," after all; Dean pictured a large pot of simmering vegetable soup, filling his entire apartment with delicious, savory aromas. His mouth watered.

Canned soup, of course, would be the easiest and quickest solution, but it also felt a little like cheating. If the idea was to eat better foods, then fresh vegetables were the way to go, right? Then again, Dean definitely hadn't stocked up on fresh produce during his last trip to the grocery store, which meant that he was going to have to go shopping again. His legs protested as he made his way to the shower, but he forced them onward.

_ Maybe I'll grab some stuff to make a pie, too, _ he bargained with himself. Pie-making was a skill he definitely had locked down already, and making that addition to the day's list served well as a bribe to get him out the door.

\---

Standing over the bins of vegetables, Dean found himself at a slight loss. The basics were simple: carrots, potatoes, corn. Did he need to buy fresh beans, or were dried okay? If he bought dried beans, would he have to soak them? Should he put some kind of greens in, too? He couldn't remember ever actually having kale in vegetable soup, but it seemed like kale was something that healthy people threw into everything, so maybe he should consider it.

He was just pulling up some vegetable soup recipes on his phone when he suddenly smelled something that was definitely not produce. The aroma of nutmeg and cloves that filled his senses made him want to drop everything and seek the source right then. He felt almost giddy with it, to the point where he didn't immediately process the voice behind him saying his name. "Hello, Dean! I see you're feeling better?"

Dean slowly turned around, almost bowled over by the overwhelming  _ want _ that hit his brain. Castiel was standing there smiling at him - a wide, gummy smile that lit his entire face. Instead of the suit and trench coat he'd been wearing when Dean had seen him during their previous encounters, he now wore a grey tee-shirt and running shorts, both damp with perspiration; the earbuds draped around his neck added to the evidence that he had been out running before entering the store. Any scent blockers that Cas might have applied that morning had been long sweated away, leaving him positively swimming in every delicious scent that Dean had struggled to detect before now. 

"Um," Dean said, trying desperately to recall the question he had been asked. "Yes! I'm feeling much better! Thanks!" He cursed himself mentally for the blush he couldn't quite suppress, remembering once again the condition in which Cas had last seen him.

"Well, I'm glad. Sam and I were discussing some work issues yesterday evening, and when he told me how intensive your appointment had been, I was highly sympathetic. Dental appointments are rarely enjoyable, and yours looked as though it was particularly difficult."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean said awkwardly. "I mean, it's just something you do, right? Like paying taxes, and, uh...other things." He lifted his hand, self-consciously reaching to grab the back of his neck, but found himself still gripping a bag of beans he'd forgotten he was holding.

Castiel nodded, chuckling. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean. The not-so-fun parts of life. Inevitable, but annoying." He gestured at his clothing with a grimace. "I remember exercise  wasn't something I had to fit into a schedule, and certainly not something that required being out of bed before eight o'clock on a weekend morning."

"I run, too," Dean blurted impulsively.  _ Wow, eloquent _ .

"Really?" Cas said, grinning even more widely than before. "That's excellent, Dean! You know, I belong to a running group that meets at the park over on Eleventh Street. We run together every Saturday at seven AM. I'd—we'd love to have you join us sometime."

Well, now he'd stepped in it. Dean imagined a repeat of yesterday's running fiasco, only with an audience of "real" runners judging him instead of children. That would be horrible enough; having Castiel watch him run sounded too mortifying for words. "Well, y'know," he hedged, "I usually work Saturday mornings. It can get pretty busy. Lots of folks like to get their car work done on weekends, so…"

"I completely understand," Cas said, nodding seriously. "I'm glad you didn't have to work this morning, then. Even if you weren't too sore, being gentle with yourself is important."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said. "I mean, it's fine now, but I did figure I'd take the day off from running, too." He congratulated himself for the plausible lie.

"Of course!" Castiel agreed. "But I see you're cooking something?" He looked at the beans questioningly.

"Uh, just some soup," Dean said. "Seemed simple enough."

"And all the way from scratch? That's impressive."

Dean's ears burned; he wondered if Cas was being sincere or patronizing. He seemed too friendly to be teasing. "Is it?"

"Definitely. Soup does sound simple, but the art of seasoning it correctly...I'm afraid I never quite mastered it. Always a little too much or not enough."

Feeling uncertain now, Dean stared at the vegetables again. This was beginning to seem more difficult than he'd imagined, and the canned soup aisle sounded more attractive by the moment. While he was debating, Castiel glanced down into his cart.

"That's not for soup, though," he said. "Flour, butter...are you baking, too? You really must be feeling better, then."

"Oh, that's just for a pie," Dean said, distracted.

"You bake pies? Also from scratch?"

"Well, sure."  _ No way am I gonna put kale in this soup, _ Dean decided.  _ If all the rest is going to be tricky, I better at least make the vegetable part as simple as I can. Maybe it'll be okay to use canned beans, too. _

"What kind of pie will you make?"

"Hmmm?" Dean pulled his mind back from the soup. "Oh, maybe apple. That's my go-to pie, and I don't even really have to think about it anymore."

"Really," Cas said, an odd tone in his voice. "That's...I am most impressed." 

Dean looked back at Cas when his voice dropped. His first thought was that maybe he was coming off as a sugar junkie, and that Cas was judging him for his weird food priorities. That wasn't what he saw in his eyes, though, and his scent...it was darker and richer now, almost ravenous _._ _Cas must really like pie,_ Dean thought. _I'm not even sure_ I _feel that strongly about it_. Maybe it was a running thing, though; he remembered Sam, back when they shared a home, coming home from some of his longer runs starving and ready to eat everything in the kitchen.

"There'll probably be plenty left over. I sometimes take some over to my brother; If you want, I can bring some for you, too." Sam might tease him about his diet, but somehow the teasing always evaporated in the face of Dean's pie. He supposed that Sam might be justifying it because of the fruit content; it tempted him to experiment with a marathon run of chocolate and cream-based pies, just to test the theory.

Castiel was beaming. "That's very generous of you, Dean. I look forward to tasting your work. I'm sure it will be marvelous."

"Well, I don't know about all that. I've just been doing it a while, and I enjoy it. I'm no professional chef or anything."

"Perhaps you don't bake for money, but that doesn't mean that the product will be any less pleasant. A person's enjoyment is often reflected in the results of their work. Perhaps you should let your pie stand for itself?" He was frowning a little, but he didn't seem angry. Dean hated the thought that he might be disappointing him, though.

"Sam seems to like it, anyway," he compromised, still not comfortable with the open praise. "Of course, he could just be saying that because we're family, so take that for whatever it's worth."

"Sam is an honest man, and a discerning one. I just hope he leaves some behind for me, if he enjoys it so much." Castiel winked, and Dean decided he wanted more than anything to see him do that again. It was beyond adorable.

"Hey, if he doesn't, you let me know, and I'll just have to make you one all of your own, so you can refuse to share with him." Was that flirting? Was it too obvious? He didn't have time to feel nervous before Cas laughed and nodded his head.

"It's a plan. Now I almost hope he keeps it all for himself." The warmth of his laughter made Dean flush again, but this time it was with pleasure. He wished he could stand there basking in the sensation all day.

\---

Later that afternoon, gazing down into his soup pot, he once again felt gladness about running into Castiel at the store. Not only had it hopefully made up for his negative impression after the dentist, but Cas had probably saved him from an awful soup-making tragedy. He'd grabbed the canned beans after all, and he'd even been able to find a "soup seasoning" packet that had allowed him to avoid problems on that side.

Now his kitchen smelled like bay leaves and wholesomeness. He grinned happily, sniffing at the steam rising from the pot. Today hadn't turned out nearly as bad as yesterday, he thought. Maybe this whole "grown-up choices" plan would work out, after all!

With the soup simmering, and with one pie baking and a second ready to go into the oven (he'd definitely wanted to make sure there were leftovers, even if the soup had been terrible and he'd needed extra "consolation pie" for himself), Dean sat down at his table to examine his list again. He was riding the high of success, and he found himself actually looking forward to the next challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once, when I was delirious with fever and a bad cold, my midwife told me to make a pot of soup with three cloves of garlic. I was so out of it that I threw in three BULBS. It was the most garlicky soup that ever garlicked. Soup is hard.


	5. Signs of Intelligence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was delayed; my whole family got hit with a nasty respiratory virus, and I even wound up in the ER with dehydration. Hopefully everything's on the mend now!

Dean didn't want to look like a stalker, so even if he did remember exactly where Sam had dropped Castiel off when giving him a ride home, he wasn't going to go dropping pie off at his doorstep. Instead, he decided to use the time to make sure he was ready for their next meeting. So far, Cas had seen him publicly humbling himself, delirious on pain meds, and staring cluelessly at vegetables, and even though that last encounter had ended pleasantly, he was hoping that a little preparation would help his own confidence.

So it was that on Sunday morning, Dean was running to the convenience store for a few of the biggest, most serious Sunday newspapers they had.  _ The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Chicago Tribune _ ...he figured between all that, he ought to be able to get what he wanted, even discounting any extra Hollywood gossip or other fluff that he didn't need right now. (He'd save all that for later, for himself.)

Arms full, and with a mug full of hot coffee, he flopped onto his sofa and took a deep breath before grabbing the first newspaper on the stack and scanning the front page. "Grown-up choice number 4: keep up with the news," he said to himself. "Okay, world, let's see what's going on."

An hour later, Dean sat surrounded in piles of newsprint, head spinning. Maybe trying to take on and commit  _ all _ the news to memory at once wasn't his finest strategy.

"So this one might take a little longer," he decided. "I guess it was right there in the thought. 'Keeping up' isn't the same thing as 'cram it all into my head in one day.'" The politics alone were completely daunting; he was still trying to keep track of the difference between the Suunis and the Shiites, let alone remember who were the "good guys" and who were currently on the outs. He thought he could remember the names of most of the more prominent elected officials of his own country and state, but he knew that if he actually tried to have a discussion with anyone about them, he'd manage to get about three sentences in before being completely lost. 

The "Arts" sections left him feeling as though he hadn't read a published word since high school. Financial news, he abandoned after ten minutes. (Changes in the corporate tax code? Dean was just going on total faith that his complete yearly reliance on TurboTax wasn't either losing him thousands of dollars or would eventually land him in jail for tax fraud.) The only stuff he was really interested in reading in the Health pages were the recipes, though he had the sneaking suspicion he was supposed to pay more attention to the nutritional information included with those.

So this should probably be an osmosis-type of thing, not a targeted investigation. Looking over the subscription rates for the various papers, he decided he should probably start with one paper, plus watching the evening news on TV. He could maybe make it a thing, like an evening ritual, maybe with a small glass of whiskey. That would be positively sophisticated, wouldn't it?

Fine, he'd try that. But he didn't want to completely abandon the idea of presenting himself as a well-read, knowledgeable adult. Dean glanced at his coffee cup, grimacing when he saw it sitting abandoned, more than half full of cold coffee; he got up to dump it out and refresh it, ready to dive into Plan B. He grabbed his laptop and opened a search engine.

_ "How to sound smart" _ __  
_ "Things to talk about to sound intelligent" _ __  
_ "How do I sound smarter in conversations" _ _  
_ __ "Making people think you're smarter than you really are without sounding completely awkward"

The key, Dean figured, was going to be in finding a few good topics about which he could sound reasonable intelligent. The articles (many of which were clickbait, but he was patient) agreed that other people would make assumptions from there; sound like an expert on Van Gogh, for example, and people assume you know a ton about art in general. All in the attitude, they said; look confident, be vague if you have to, and if all else fails, turn it around on the other person and just agree with whatever they say. Other people, the articles swore, really just wanted to hear themselves talk, anyway.

Dean grabbed a piece of paper to make another list.

Politics were right out; that was a given. He wasn't going to step into that quagmire. He needed something simpler, something he could learn about quickly. Something, too, that could easily come up in conversation without making him sound crazy. Remembering that he was planning on bringing pie, he considered. Apple pie...apples. He could talk about what apples he used, maybe something about how different apples were good in different recipes, maybe even say something about the heirloom apples he'd tried this fall, when some girl had dragged him apple picking. He might not even remember her name, but he definitely remembered those Wolf River apples; he'd brought home a giant bag and baked them into everything for weeks.

Thinking about orchards and farms reminded him of an article he'd seen in the local paper, about a new wind farm going in north of town. Cas seemed like the kind of guy who was into green energy, so that was a prime candidate for discussion. Dean could probably get away with just starting that topic and letting it roll on its own. He did some quick Googling, saving the tabs for later reading.

One more thing, then. Lots of the clickbait articles had suggested literature or poetry, which felt a little intimidating. On the other hand, being the kind of guy who could just toss out quotes and references to classic books - well, it sounded pretty damn appealing to him. Again, definitely one of those things you couldn't manage in a day or two, but maybe something a little more narrow? He glanced at one of the clickbait suggestions. 

_ "Memorize a single poem that you can drop into conversation - you'll sound like a well-bred, cultured student of the world!" _

Hard to argue with that. Somehow, though, he doubted they had in mind anything that began with "There once was a man from Nantucket." More Googling, then. Stuff from old classic writers like Shakespeare sounded great, but there was no way he could picture dropping into old-fashioned language without sounding like a complete douche. He had a secret admiration for writers from the Beat era, but most of what they wrote felt either really,  _ really _ dark and cynical, or else it was a little too aggressive for casual conversation. Something simpler, not too long, preferably something already at least a little familiar to him. Frost? Yeah, that might work; Dean thought someone might even have read this at his high school graduation, and he'd liked the way it sounded.

Hours passed, and his coffee grew cold again without Dean even noticing.

\---

Monday morning was crazy at the auto shop, as usual. Knowing full well that he wouldn't have a spare moment, Dean called Sam and asked if he wanted to meet up for lunch over his break. He was a little concerned that dropping by after work would run the risk that Cas would have already left; he wasn't sure how he was going to handle dropping off pie for him without getting either teased or scolded by Sam, anyway. By some miracle, he didn't have to come up with any cover story; when he asked about lunch, Sam took the ball out of his hands.

"Do you mind if Cas comes along? We were talking briefly about grabbing something earlier, anyway, so I thought I might ask him, if you don't mind." Dean could barely contain his satisfaction enough to reply casually that he "didn't mind."

If he was a little more thorough than usual with the lava soap under this fingernails before leaving the shop, well, grownups don't eat with dirty hands.

Sam had suggested a small cafe that served soups and sandwiches. Dean had farther to drive than the other two did, so they were waiting at an outdoor table when he arrived. He carefully carried the two plastic boxes with the pie to where they were sitting, putting them on the table between them. Castiel looked slightly rumpled, as though he'd been having a stressful morning, but his body language showed that he was feeling relaxed now.

"Dude, what's this?" Sam said.

"Uh, it looks like pie," Dean said, trying for a relaxed chuckle.

"Yeah, I can see that," Sam said, lifting the lid. "But for one thing, the last time you brought me leftover pie, you threw some plastic wrap over a paper plate. This practically has  _ presentation.  _ I didn't even know you had matched Tupperware sets."

"You wound me." He hadn't, not before last night.

"Also, this is, like, half a pie. You made an entire extra pie, split here. Just how much baking did you do this weekend?"

"Sam, I believe what you are doing is commonly viewed as 'looking a gift horse in the mouth,'" Cas murmured, gently rebuking. He pulled the other box toward himself and peeked under the lid, then beamed up at Dean happily. "This looks positively delicious, Dean. I'm very much looking forward to trying it."

Not blushing under the praise was impossible; with embarrassment, Dean realized that he must have sweat through some of his scent blockers during his busy morning, and he could smell his own pleased reaction to Cas's words. Sam was giving him a strange look, but neither of the two lawyers was impolite enough to comment out loud, thankfully.

Dropping into a chair between them, Dean nodded affably toward the server who promptly approached the table to take their orders. As soon as she left, Dean grabbed his opening.

"I hope the apples I used for the pie are okay. I mean, I'm pretty picky, myself. They're not the best I've tried, but the best heirloom ones aren't in the store at all, and you have to get them in season, right from the orchards."

"You go apple picking?" Sam paused with his glass of water halfway to his mouth.

"Do I go...yes, Sam, I know where apples come from." He scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Sorry, man. I've just never…" Sam glanced back and forth between Dean and Castiel, then took a drink from his glass. "Well, I've never had a problem with any of your, um, apples before. I'm sure these will be just fine." Dean got the distinct impression that his brother would have been making fun of him if there were nobody else with them.

"But of course, there's a difference. I know exactly what you mean," Cas said, tilting his head to the side with eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "There's much to be said for fruits and vegetables grown locally. My sister grows heirloom tomatoes for a hobby. My own personal priority lies with open pollination, though." He winked, smiling cheerfully.

"Oh, sure," Dean said.  _ Open pollination? I have no idea what that means. _ "That's my preference, too. Got to have pollination that's...open."

"I mean, there's naturally some loss of control over the final product, but the added benefit of encouraging healthy bee colonies more than make up for that. Honey bees, naturally, get a lot of the attention in that respect, as they should, but I happen to know that at least a few of the local orchards have brought in nests of blue orchard bees! Absolutely beautiful creatures, and much more efficient. They won't nest in colonies, but nest boxes let them…" 

Dean sat stunned, listening to Cas go on and on about bees. He supposed he had to hand it to the articles that suggested letting the other person talk, but nothing he'd read had given him any clue about what to do when the conversation ventured far afield. All he could do was nod and agree whenever it felt appropriate. He determinedly did  _ not _ look at Sam, whom he could tell was as speechless as he was, though almost certainly for different reasons.  _ God, he's so adorable. _ Dean found himself distracted from the words Castiel was saying, focused only on how his eyes were lit with excitement and the way he gestured animatedly with his hands as he spoke.

"...but a small colony, maybe, when I have the time to truly give it the attention it deserves," Cas finished. Pausing and looking uncertain, he cleared his throat. "Please forgive me; I tend to get carried away."

"No problem, dude," Dean said quickly, relieved that Cas didn't seem to be looking for any kind of commentary from him. "I mean, I'm the same way about music."

"Oh? You like music?" Cas leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "What types do you enjoy?"

The server chose that moment to bring their food to the table, which filled Dean with relief. Although he could happily wax rhapsodic on the best and worst of classic rock albums, he didn't particularly want to right now. Castiel seemed like the kind of guy who would be more into classical than classic, or at least have a much wider variety of stuff he knew and enjoyed. Dean didn't want to come off as a dumb metalhead. Instead, he quickly grabbed his BLT and took a huge bite, hoping Sam would take over the discussion in the meantime.

"Don't choke, Dean," Sam said dryly, but he turned to his own soup with equal enthusiasm, which brought conversation to a comfortable lull. While he chewed, Dean decided moving on to another topic was imperative.

"So, uh," he stammered, "talking about orchards and farms and, well, things like that…" He felt like a babbling idiot; Sam was raising a bewildered eyebrow at him. "I saw they're gonna build a big wind farm out by the highway."

Both Sam and Castiel suddenly groaned deeply. Sam dropped his head into his hands, and Cas rolled his own head backwards, eyes squeezed closed. Dean was taken aback, wondering what on earth he'd said wrong.

"Yeah, we know about it," Sam finally said. "We've been hearing about it all damn morning. Apparently, there's a family who owns the land nearby, and they're opposed to the plans, and they want to file suit to stop the construction. It's utterly ridiculous…"

"Completely and utterly," Cas agreed. "It's not as though they have real cause. The market studies showed that wind farms have had no negative effects on property values in our area, and the ideas about health risks are founded in pure hysterical pseudoscience."

"I don't know whether it would be worse if the family was buying into the junk science, or if they were just vested financially in other forms of energy, but it doesn't really matter, because they have money, so the partners have decided we're going to represent them." Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "Of all the things to have our name attached to…"

Castiel groaned again, shaking his head. Dean looked back and forth between the two men, feeling anxious and guilty. He had no idea what he could say at this point; of all the stupid topics he could have brought up, he had chosen the worst. "Well, I like windmills," he said weakly. Sam turned an exasperated look on him, and he shrugged helplessly. 

Lunch ended on a frustratingly tense note. Honestly, Dean just wanted to escape the tension and go back to the drawing board, or perhaps just crawl into bed and try to forget the afternoon entirely. He felt defeated; even the idea of trying to casually drop a line of poetry at this point sounded ludicrous. Sam paid the check for all three of them, and Dean couldn't even bring himself to argue about it.

The glum mood was palpable as they trudged into the parking lot; Cas glanced at him with an apologetic expression when they reached the cars, which was confusing, since he wasn't the one who'd ruined lunch. Dean felt his shoulders hunching inward, but he couldn't summon the spirit to put on a false smile.

He slid into the front seat of his Impala and prepared to head back to work, when he heard the awful, grating sound of an engine cranking but refusing to turn over. Knowing it couldn't be Sam's hybrid, Dean climbed back out and peered over at Castiel's old Buick, where he was sitting behind the wheel with a defeated look. When Cas turned the key again, fruitlessly attempting to start the car, Dean made his way to the driver's side door.

"Dude, stop. It's not working," Dean said, pulling open the door. Cas looked up in surprise, but Dean just couldn't listen to the noise and not do anything. "Trust me, I'm a mechanic; I listen to those noises all day long. That one, right there? You're not going to get anywhere just cranking it like that."

"I just had it looked at last month," Cas sighed. "They replaced the fuel pump, but apparently that didn't fix the problem."

"No, it wouldn't if the problem were farther up the chain. But sometimes if there's corrosion, doing any kind of labor in there knocks just enough of it off the make things work for a little while, and if you don't know what you're doing…" He shrugged. "Look, you can go back to your garage, and you probably should, just to get your money back. But if you let me just take a look under your hood, I might be able to at least get it working for you today. Okay?"

Cas stared at him, a small frown between his eyebrows. "I couldn't ask you to fix my car like this, Dean. That would be disrespectful."

"Oh, c'mon; I'm sure the restaurant puts up with worse in their parking lot. They'd probably prefer this to having a tow truck block traffic, anyway." He turned toward his trunk, opening it to look over the bag of tools he'd hauled home last week for some of his own car maintenance. Reaching for the bag, he caught a glimpse of his scrubbed hands and grimaced.  _ It was a stupid idea, anyway. I was never going to pass for the smart, polished guy. Just a dumb grease monkey; no point in pretending. _ He firmed his jaw, then grabbed the tool he wanted.

Cas had gotten out and was standing by his open hood, peering cautiously into the engine as though it was dangerous and potentially aggressive. "Sam said he'd tell our bosses I'd be late getting back, but isn't that a bit optimistic? The car won't start at all."

"Sam knows me," Dean said dismissively. "He's seen me resurrect cars farther gone than this." Rolling up his sleeves, he leaned into the car and fiddled with the leads on his handheld diagnostic meter. "Course, I've been doing it awhile. Not like it's hard, but I guess there can be a knack. Satisfying, even if it's nothing fancy. Turn the key for me now?"

It didn't take more than a few minutes for Dean to isolate the problem. "Just a corroded connector. See, right there," he said, pointing. "I'll get them as clean as I can, but you can replace it for less than fifty bucks if it looks too bad for that. If you buy it, I'll put it in for you."

"Dean, I can't thank you enough," Castiel said with earnest sincerity. "I know you think this wasn't anything 'fancy,' but you've saved me money and time, and despite what you may think, this isn't something that just anyone can do. I'll confess—I actually almost ruined my high school grade point average by flunking woodshop." He gave an embarrassed chuckle. 

"Well, nobody can be completely perfect," Dean said without thinking, then cringed. Castiel blushed, but he just laughed again.

"True, but how boring would life be if we all were talented in the same ways?" he said. "I greatly enjoyed watching you work." His voice sounded honest, though Dean still suspected he was being patronized.

"Guess it's pretty far away from office work," he said. "Dirtier, for one." A morose, cynical thought struck him, and he smirked wryly. "Sort of like 'the road not taken.' You took the less traveled path, right? Me, I just wandered down the muddy trail with the deep ruts, left the more scenic roads for special people like Sam, with the big brains."  _ People like you. _ Dean finished scrubbing the connector and closed the hood, not raising his eyes.

"Robert Frost, one of my favorite poets," Castiel hummed. Crossing to stand beside Dean, he leaned against the car with arms folded. "You know, it's a lovely poem, but most people completely misunderstand it. 'Though as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same, and both that morning equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black.'" He paused, letting the words settle. "Frost was saying that neither road was actually better than the other. The last line, about his choice having made 'all the difference,' was meant as self-mockery, an example of the way we rewrite our own histories to suggest that the paths we follow dictate our fates."

Dean sighed. Yet again, he'd managed to demonstrate his lack of learning, even when he was using what he'd read just to make that very point. He didn't really have a response, so he just nodded, keeping his eyes down.

"Dean." Cas turned to face him, waiting until Dean finally managed to raise his head enough to see his face. "It's an apt poem, I think. The paths we choose don't tell us what we will do or be, but the free will with which we make our choices, and how we come to understand ourselves through them, is the most important thing. We aren't defined by our circumstances." Dean's breath caught when Castiel reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for fixing my car."

Fighting the typical urge to wave away the expression of gratitude, Dean swallowed hard and said, "You're welcome." After a moment passed, which should have felt awkward but for some reason did not, he added, "Just let me know when you have the new connector. I'll text Sam the part number, so you know what to get."

"Why don't you just text me?" Cas pulled out his phone and pushed it gently into Dean's hand. "Give me your number, and I'll text you so you have mine." He smiled in satisfaction when Dean keyed his number into the phone. 

Driving back to the shop, Dean's head spun. Nothing had gone quite the way he'd wanted it to—far from it. Somehow, though, he felt a little less upset than he had expected. Maybe he hadn't achieved his goal, but that smile Cas had given him as they said goodbye...he found himself grinning as he remembered it. And he had his phone number, too, even if he felt like he'd never be able to actually use it for anything other than the reason he'd given. 

Bobby scolded him for having his head in the clouds all afternoon, but it didn't bother Dean at all.


	6. Ain't Worth the Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for threat of non-con; spoilery details in end notes if you need them.

"...really all that hard to remember basic maintenance, I mean, damn it. Even with fucking window clings right in front of their faces, telling them every time they get in the car that they need to have the oil changed, they still can't give a damn…"

Dean had been muttering a stream of grumbles pretty much all day. It had gotten bad enough that Bobby had banished him to the smallest, furthest bay in the garage, where he could work by himself and customers would be less likely to hear him. Dean's mood had been darkening steadily for the past four days, and his boss and coworkers had given up asking him what was wrong and whether he needed anything from them at this point. He supposed he should be grateful that nobody had yet made any snide comments blaming his attitude on his hormones—well, at least not where he could hear. 

It was a measure of just how far down the hole he was that he didn't bother amending that thought, admitting that nobody in the garage would ever think, let alone say, anything like that, whether he could hear or not.

He'd felt great the whole evening after he'd talked with Cas. Even though things had gone, all right, not so according to plan, Cas hadn't seemed to have held any of his flubs or awkwardness against him. He'd gone to bed that night feeling something like pride: he didn't need to be a genius for other people to appreciate him. His dreams that night had been happy ones, featuring bright blue eyes gazing fondly at him, warm laughter rumbling in his ear...warm hands running over his chest...warm lips…yeah, okay, by the time he woke up on a gasp, the dreams had taken a solid turn into something a bit more raunchy than romantic. Since his sheets were already puddled with sweat and the slick he'd been leaking, he decided to go ahead and make the mess complete, stroking himself lazily as he tried to remember where the dream had left off. 

_ "Harder...harder, please!" Cas smirked at Dean's pleading, gripping his ass with both hands as he thrust into him from behind. Dean twisted his head even further over his shoulder, desperate for another kiss. Instead, Cas wrapped an arm around his chest and pulled him upward with a yank until back was pressed hard against chest, a solid sheet of heat like fire between them. _

_ "We have all the time in the world, and I intend to use every minute to take...you...apart," Cas growled, punctuating his words with deep thrusts that were almost grinding. He lowered his mouth to Dean's neck, nipping teasingly at the skin and the scent glands beneath. "You're mine now, Dean." _

With a strangled, startled cry, Dean came all over his hand. He hadn't expected to come so quickly; he hadn't even had a chance to reach for any of his toys to fill himself. The very thought of being  _ claimed _ by Castiel had been enough to send him shooting over the brink, overwhelmed by desire.

It wasn't he was cleaning himself up in the shower that the shame began. Bad enough that he was having dreams about the man; you couldn't blame a guy for what his subconscious threw up on the mental screen at night. Letting himself consciously fantasize, though, imagining Cas naked and fucking him? When in reality Cas had been nothing but respectful and friendly toward him?  _ Freaking hypocrite, _ Dean sneered at himself.  _ Get pissed when people treat you like a hole to fuck, then turn around and do the same to someone else. Somebody who deserves way better. _ Thinking about Cas's eyes now made him feel waves of guilt.

_ And he'd never claim you, anyway.  _

By the time he was driving to work, he'd convinced himself that he was completely misreading their conversations the day before. The smiles, the compliments, the gratitude—those things were all really a statement about Castiel, how good-natured and polite he was. Sure, he'd seemed sincere, but even if he was, it was probably just that he was one of those genuinely kind guys who tried to see the value in everybody, and that just made Dean feel even worse about himself.

_ Idiot. Sleazebag. Worthless. _

The next morning, there had been a newspaper on Dean's porch when he was leaving, and it took him a moment to remember that he'd started a subscription as part of his big plan. Staring at it now, he felt exhausted. Honestly, he'd be tempted to give the entire plan up  if it wasn't for the fact that, back before it had all gone to hell, he'd mentioned some of what he was doing in his weekly check-in phone call with Dr. Bradbury. The phone check-ins filled the gaps between full appointments, letting him go longer between physical meetings without letting little problems become big ones, but he had a bad habit of slipping during them. It was as though not seeing a clipboard and wall-hanging diploma made him forget that he was talking with his doctor and not just a friend. Luckily, he hadn't outright babbled about the  _ catalyst  _ for the whole thing, but what he'd shared about his ideas had been enough to make her excited for him. Now he couldn't just throw in the towel, not without looking like even more of a failure than he already was.

At least it wasn't all terrible. The horrendous experience at the dentist had actually been motivation enough for him to stay on that particular horse, and he'd gone ahead and made his next cleaning appointment for six months out, not wanting to ever go through something like that again. He'd also bought a Waterpik, at the hygienist's recommendation, and once he got over the bizarre tickling along his gumline when he used it, he found it weirdly satisfying.

The running had become a point of stubborn pride for him. After the initial soreness went away, the memory of those mocking little brats' faces might have been enough to get him back out there, proving that he could do better. Dr. Bradbury's squeal had provided extra incentive; it turned out she was a runner, too (were all the people in his life secretly runners?), and she "couldn't wait" to see his "running logs." So that part of the plan, now reaffirmed, also had a new line item: find out what a running log was, and then make one. 

Unfortunately, he was too exhausted after running to think about cooking. Counting green peppers on his pizza as "eating vegetables" felt a little disingenuous, but it was more than he'd have done before. Hell, as bad as he was feeling, it was practically model behavior.

The point was that he wasn't wallowing. He was simply  _ processing. _ By himself. Avoiding other people, who deserved better than to have to deal with him and his shit. Sam had tried to call, but Dean had let it go to voicemail, and he hadn't left a message. Other than the guys at work, he was almost managing to escape talking to other people entirely.

Well, except for the person he really wanted to avoid the most.

**_6:33 PM This pie is exquisite. I do not know when I have more enjoyed a dessert, and I cannot thank you enough for sharing your talents with me._ **

**_6:37 PM My grandmother used to make peach pies when we visited. Dare I hope that your skills extend to other pie flavors?_ **

Dean wasn't really much of a texter. Scrimping and saving to afford college and law school for Sam meant that he had been late to the whole smart phone era, and his use of the technology had never quite evolved far beyond the sort of brief messages he'd laboriously typed using multi-tap. Castiel, on the other hand, was apparently the sort of person who texted with the formality and mechanics of a doctoral dissertation.

At work the next day, it continued.

**_9:24 AM Wondering whether you were out running in the rain today, too. My shoes are so soggy I could wring them out into a bucket._ **

Dean snorted, picturing Cas with his hair plastered down by the pelting raindrops, splashing through the puddles. He replied,  _ Not this morning. Maybe later tonight if it lets up a little. _

**_9:29 AM Make sure you wear bright colors and carry a light. I'd hate to think of you being injured in a collision with one of the vehicles for which you care so much. :)_ **

Putting the phone back into his pocket, Dean rolled his eyes as he returned his attention to the truck he was servicing. At least one benefit of his work exile was that he wasn't getting scolded every time he stopped to read the latest message. 

The conflict in his mind had him even more agitated. On one hand, he felt a little cheered every time he heard the "ping" indicated that Cas had thought about him, sending little thoughts and observations throughout the day. It was flattering, really. Of course, it was possible that Castiel Novak was simply a complete texting addict, messaging everybody he knew incessantly, but that didn't seem to jive with the impression Dean had of him. Successful lawyers just didn't operate like that, the way he understood things.

**_5:20 PM I couldn't stop thinking about the soup you were making the other day, and this weather seems to be begging for comfort food. I'm afraid mine came from a restaurant, though. The croutons I added were homemade, so perhaps that makes it better._ **

On the other hand, the warmth that spread through his chest with each message was followed by an unpleasant lurch in his gut as he was reminded that he wasn't the person Cas seemed to think he was. He was reckless, short-tempered, disorganized, and careless, and even though he knew all that and had been working to improve, he was still a far cry from where he probably ought to be. He wasn't good enough to be Cas's  _ friend,  _ let alone anything more, and if he ever found out about the way Dean was thinking about him—couldn't  _ stop _ thinking about him…

**_8:51 PM By the way, I went to the auto parts store for the part you told me I needed. They were out of stock for the particular type for my car, but they said it should be in by next Wednesday. Should I bring my car to your garage then?_ **

But he couldn't just ignore the messages. For one thing, it would be rude. For another, he didn't want to.

_ No, Cas, I said I'd install it for you, not that you should pay my garage to do it. I can just swing by your office parking lot at the end of the day. _

**_9:02 PM Dean, I refuse to take advantage of your kindness. I feel bad enough that I allowed you to repair my car once without payment other than gratitude, and I can't do it a second time._ **

_ It's not taking advantage Cas. Just a favor, okay? I like helping people. Used to fix Sam's car all the time until he got that oversized Matchbox car he drives now. _

**_9:06 PM Your work has value. If you insist on this, then I propose you come to my house, not my work, so that I can offer payment in the form of food. Do you remember my address?_ **

Well, that made things messier. Dean cringed, already knowing he lacked the willpower to refuse.

\---

By the weekend, Dean had reached the state of self-flagellation where it had gone on so long that he was now beating himself up over  _ that, _ and he decided it was time to move on to something else, even if he wasn't feeling it.  Sighing, dragged himself out of his house and into his car to drive to Ellen's.

"Hey, Jo," he said as he walked in. It was still early enough that there were few people there, and Jo was seated in front of the bar instead of standing behind it. Dean knew she didn't usually work the day shift on Saturdays, but that she often hung out there anyway.

"Dean," she greeted him. "Haven't seen you around lately. I'd wonder whether you took me seriously about cutting back on the booze, but you look like shit, so I'm guessing no?" She smirked, but her eyes were playful as she gently punched him in the shoulder. He dropped on the stool next to her with a huff.

"Not really been drinking much, just not sleeping great lately," he said. He had no intention of saying why that was, but she knew better than to try to pry. Jo was like a sister to him, and one of the many things they could agree on was their mutual distaste for opening up about emotions. "Anyway, I can't believe I'm actually going here, but...remember how you and Meg were laughing about helping me fix my wardrobe? Well…"

"You're kidding." Jo's jaw dropped open. "You're seriously presenting an opportunity for me to get you out of the flannel?" Before he could do more than nod, she had her phone in her hand, furiously typing. 

"What are you doing?" he said, eyes widening.

"Don't you move," she warned him, finally pocketing the phone and spinning in her seat to face him. "Okay, Meg's meeting us at the mall in fifteen. Let's go."

"Wait, right now?" He felt a bit panicked, unprepared for the speed at which things were moving.

"Baby, I've been waiting for this for years. Not giving you the chance to change your mind now! Let's go!" She grabbed his hand and nearly dragged him outside to his car.

Twenty minutes later, he was...not pouting. Dean Winchester didn't pout, no matter what anybody said. Meg was staring at him challengingly, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of a reply. He folded his arms and stared back silently.

Jo came stumbling up with an armload of shirts. "Look, Dean! So many different fabrics! We may not even recognize you when we're done!"

Meg ran a hand over the shirt on top. "Ooh, linen. Nice color."

He really didn't even need to be there at all. For all the use he was, he could have just given them his measurements and a credit card; they foisted clothes at him, shoved him into dressing rooms, then ignored his grins or scowls entirely when he paraded out in their selections.

"Nah, I don't think the checks are working for him. Too much."

"But it's Canali! And it's on clearance!"

"You know, girls, it's really scratchy—"

"Shhhhh."

It went on and on, Dean finally insisted on a break, during which Meg and Jo ran off to grab sodas and Dean breathed deeply and wandered away from the crowd. He was hot and tired, and he really hoped they were almost done. Sure, some of the things they'd chosen looked good on him, but paying this much attention to how he looked, at the expense of how he  _ felt, _ seemed weird and backwards to him.

A sporting goods shop caught his eye, and he meandered over to the display cases. There was a sale on hunting bows that looked interesting; Dean hadn't been hunting since he was a teenager, with his dad and uncle, but looking at the bows made him nostalgic. He waved over a clerk. "Can I see that Barnett?"

He was testing the weight in his hands, peering through the sight, when he heard a voice from behind him drawl, "Present for your alpha?" Dean sighed internally. Of course, he'd have to deal with this today. All that sweating and changing clothes must have done it in for his blockers.

He turned, glaring at the burly guy standing too close behind him. "Could be. Could be for me, too."

The dude smiled widely. "Aw, that's cute. But I don't think so. Never seen an omega who can handle a hunt. For one, animals smell 'em a mile away. Can't mask something so sweet." He winked, and Dean's stomach turned. "And for another, all that blood is too scary. If you really had an alpha who was taking care of you, he'd never let you out there." Stepping forward, he added, "So either you don't got one, or you don't got a  _ good _ one."

Dean wanted badly to show this asshole just how "scary" he found the sight of blood, preferably by getting some all over his fists. He placed the bow carefully on the counter, faced him head on and...stopped. The memory of narrowed blue eyes and a gravelly voice tight with restrained outrage hit him sharply. Cas had been  _ angry _ when he'd heard Dean had fought with those alphas at the bar. Dean wanted to defend himself, but the idea of disappointing or upsetting Cas was more than he could take. 

Mature grown-ups should be able to take the hit to their pride. He could, too.

"Please stop," he said, his forced words coming out sounding hesitant instead of choked with frustration. "I am not here for that."

"Aw, babe, you don't need to act shy," the guy purred, moving even closer. Waves of his bitter, smoky scent hit Dean, and he gagged. "Let's have some fun. I'll let you handle my 'bow.'" He snorted, amused by his own innuendo.

"No," Dean growled. He tried to sidestep around the man without having to come into contact with him, but the guy stepped in the same direction, blocking him. Dean knew he could take the guy out without too much trouble, but he  _ couldn't. _ He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to come up with a plan that would get him away from the guy without violence.

Eyes narrowed, the alpha leaned directly into Dean's personal space, sniffing at him. "I think you ought to give me a chance to change your mind," he said quietly. There was a distinct threat in his voice. Dean gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

"Sir, can I help you with something?" The clerk, wearing an expression of tense politeness, spoke loudly beside them, startling them both and shattering the tension. Dean turned quickly and grabbed the bow he'd put down.

"I don't think I'll be wanting to get this today, but I think this guy wanted to see a few of your rifles," he said. The alpha stared in confusion, as the clerk, smirking cheerfully, started unlocking the case and peppering him with questions. In the flurry of activity, Dean swiftly walked away and made a beeline for the food court and the girls.

He was pissed. He was humiliated. Even the fact that he'd successfully avoided getting in any kind of trouble for fighting didn't make him feel proud. He felt just as bad, if not worse, than he had when he'd stood up for himself. At least Cas would be pleased, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is approached by an aggressive alpha in public who threatens to force him to come with him, but nothing happens.


	7. If You Can't Stand the Heat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed as usual. One of these days, I'll figure out a better system. ;) Until then, if you see anything, let me know!

**_10:41 AM The auto parts store just called, and I can pick up the connector on my way home from work. You don't have any food allergies or sensitivities that I should be aware of, do you?_ **

All right, this was happening. Dean was a whirlwind of anxieties and doubts. He couldn't deny being really,  _ really _ excited to see Cas's home, and the thought of being inside of it, alone with Cas in such a domestic way had his face flushing whenever he let himself picture it. Of course, he firmly bound, gagged, and threw into the back of his mental closet the giddy whispers from his omega brain about an  _ alpha providing for him,  _ but it felt charming and intimate even apart from any gender-rooted implications. Which were nothing he'd ever taken seriously or appreciated and which were all totally in his head right now and not in any way based in the reality of this. Dinner. Platonic payment for services rendered.  _  How many porns start this way? No, stop that! _

And despite his best efforts at trying to remind himself, almost constantly, to keep a level and realistic view about exactly who and what he was, Dean had been losing the battle to stay gloomily pragmatic. He wasn't sure when or how he'd been coaxed out of his black mood, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the steady stream of messages appearing on his phone screen. Even Cas had seemed to realize at one point that the regularity of his texting might be viewed as unusual.

**_2:07 PM I hope I'm not disturbing you too much, Dean; I know that you have less leisure to chat throughout the work day, with the physical nature of your job. I, on the other hand, am likely to do something extremely unprofessional if I have to read one more brief about "wind turbine syndrome" causing panic attacks and anxiety disorders._ **

**_2:09 PM As I otherwise enjoy my job and would not like to lose it, I hope you won't mind if I choose instead to distract myself by chatting with you. Please don't feel obligated to respond if you're busy; there's no reason we both should be unproductive. ;)_ **

Dean, amused by how much irritation Castiel could pack into his prim and proper vocabulary, replied,  _ It's fine, Cas. Vent away! _ The understanding that he was filling a role that other people might fill with a stress ball or a game of Angry Birds made Dean feel more at ease. He was happy to do whatever he could, if Cas just needed an outlet.

He only wished he could get his brain to remember that was all that he was doing.

Even though it would make him a little later in getting to Cas's house after work on Wednesday, and even though he knew he was going to be diving right back into a car engine and getting greasy again, Dean took the precaution of first going home and taking a shower, carefully applying a more than adequate layer of scent blockers. Honestly, as often as he got himself in trouble because of a tell-tale emotion leaking through to everybody around him, he should probably start carrying a roll-on stick in his pocket the way some folks carry chewing gum. Sam always rolled his eyes at him when he said things like that, insisting that it wasn't the scent getting him in trouble, but the way he reacted after the fact, but that was easy for him to say. Betas didn't go through nearly the same amount of hassle.

Cleaned up and guarded, Dean made sure he had all he needed and drove the short distance to Cas's house. "Fix the car, eat the food. Good table manners, even if he made salads and grilled tofu. God, what if he made tofu? I should have told him I was allergic to that." He rambled to himself nervously, right up until he parked in front of the house, seeing the driveway occupied by the Buick he was to repair. The hood was already up, and Cas was gazing intently into the engine, squinting thoughtfully.

"It stop working again?" Dean asked as he climbed out of his own car.

"No," Cas pronounced slowly. "I was just trying to recall what you did before. There are so many... _ things _ in there. You found the problem so quickly, and I have hardly a clue why a car should move in the first place. It's pure sorcery, as far as I'm concerned."

Dean laughed at the disgruntled expression on his face. "Not sorcery, just mechanics. You can't be a genius at everything, man. Gotta leave something for the rest of us to handle."

"I suppose." He shrugged and exhaled deeply, turning away from the engine. Grabbing a bag from the ground beside him, he turned and held it out. "Here's the part they told me I needed. It somehow looks like everything else in there, and yet nothing like anything else. If this were a jigsaw puzzle, I'd probably wind up taking scissors to the edges and forcing it somewhere."

"Remind me not to give you any jigsaw puzzles, then." Dean opened the bag, checking the new part. "You sort of need these edges to make it work. Yeah, this is good. Shouldn't take me long to do this. A lot of the work, I'll do from inside the car, go in through the steering column, but I'll also clean up anything else in the area that needs it, a little better than I did at the restaurant. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes, tops?"

"Dean, you're a marvel," Cas sighed. "If you don't mind, I'd love to watch. Dinner is ready whenever you've finished, and there's no rush. I used the slow-cooker to make chili, and it's been simmering all day. I, er, forgot to ask whether you had an aversion to spicy foods." His eyes suddenly widened in concern.

Dean smirked, earlier nerves completely forgotten. "Oh, Cas. That's...that's cute." He winked, turning to head back to his own trunk. When he closed the lid and looked up, Cas was studying him curiously.

"So you're a fan?"

"I'm a bona fide pepper-head. Practically got an asbestos mouth. Comes from years of feeding myself and Sam on the cheap—bad food gets a lot less tasteless when you dump in enough hot sauce."

Chuckling, Cas sat on the front steps and leaned against a post, getting comfortable. "I spent a lot of summers in the south when I was a child, and the food culture there tends to lean toward piquant. Apparently, eating spicy foods can help the body stay cooler in hot weather, so it became part of the diet in many hot areas."

"Just how spicy are we talking?" Dean said, sliding into the driver's seat and sliding lower to start working. 

"Well, my base recipe, the one I made for tonight, involves fresh jalapenos and serranos, which I roasted and chopped. There's also dried chile de arbol and crushed red pepper in there; I make my own chili powder, which is much better than grocery store blends. Of course, I do have a knack for pepper-gassing myself frequently when I do it, but I make enough so that I don't have to do it often." 

"Don't tell Sam! He'll clean you out, and you'll have to make even more."  Loosen screws, unclip wires. "I tried growing my own indoor birdseye peppers once. Don't have a yard to garden, y'know. Guess I didn't do it right, since I wound up with about six tiny peppers, total."

"I could help, if you wanted to try again," Cas offered. "I've grown a lot of my own. In fact, if you like…" A wicked light filled his eyes. "I've got some on hand that would never have accidentally made it into food I'd serve other people. Just how many Scovilles do you think you can handle, Mr. Winchester?"

Oh, game  _ on.  _

Half an hour later, hands washed and car purring happily, Dean and Cas were eyeing each other challengingly over a cutting board laden with small piles of sliced peppers. "I'm sure you're familiar with some of these," Cas said, pointing. "Scotch bonnets, of course."

"Of course."

"The brown ones are chocolate habaneros, and then we have some Fatalii, some Spanish nagas, Bhut Jolokia, and those ugly ducklings there are Carolina Reapers. Naturally, I left in the seeds and membranes when I sliced them all."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "And you grew all of these yourself?"

Cas shrugged. "I might happen to be the reigning regional Garden Club champion in the pepper division."

"Remind me to look into being on that judging panel," Dean muttered, already salivating. The smells of the chili and the cornbread Cas had made to accompany it already had his stomach growling, but the fresh peppers were a weakness for him. "Okay, are we just enjoying these, or are we doing some kinda showdown here?"

"Whatever you like, Dean. I'm just thrilled that you like this. Most of the time, I have to put extra cheese, sour cream, and buttered bread on the table just so family members can eat my chili as it stands, without extra spices." Dean suddenly realized that part of the warmly spicy aroma he'd been been attributing to the chili was actually coming from the man sitting opposite him. Cas was radiating deep contentment and pleasure, almost glowing with it. Being enveloped in that, thinking he'd played any part in it, was almost overwhelming.

"Well, I want to taste the chili first, I think, see what that's like, because, I know, like, the chocolate habs have a sweeter beginning than the nagas, and I don't want anything to be weird with the mixture you already made, but I definitely want to try the rest, even if we don't put them in the bowls, and…" he rambled, pushing back from the table and beginning to stand up to search for bowls. They needed bowls, and spoons, and something to drink, because it was suddenly really warm in the kitchen.

"Dean, no, you're the guest," Cas protested. "I made dinner for you, and I'll serve it. Sit, please." He gently grabbed Dean's forearm, not gripping, and waited for him to sit back down before getting up to dish out the meal. Dean still felt agitated, despite the serene humming he could just barely hear rumbling in Cas's chest. 

The chili was as delicious as he had guessed. It would have been awesome without anything added, but there was no resisting the siren call of the chiles between them, and nerves had Dean adding even more than he might otherwise have done. Cas didn't even blink, topping his bowl with just as many. Dean hadn't been bragging unjustifiably when he'd mentioned his flameproof tongue, but that didn't mean he couldn't feel the pain.

"Man," he panted. "You  _ deserve _ those trophies, or blue ribbons, or whatever they give Garden Club champs. These are  _ deadly. _ "

"It's ribbons," Cas nodded, wiping sweat from his own forehead with a paper napkin. "Honestly, last competition, I was worried. Mabel Goddard, one of the judges, had just had heart surgery. I thought, well, if it wasn't safe, her doctor would have said, right? But I'd have felt terrible for killing her."

"Great way to go, though." He was flushed with endorphins, the kind that accompany an excellent spicy meal. "God, I remember the first time I put Scorpion peppers on something—pizza, I think. Remember that episode of  _ The Simpsons  _ when Lisa tried Appu's Indian cooking?"

" _ I can see through time!"  _ Cas quoted, laughing hard.

They were both laughing then, unable to catch their breaths, and Dean couldn't remember why he'd been nervous about this dinner at all.

\---

"Make yourself at home. I'm just going to rinse and throw these in the dishwasher," Castiel said, grabbing their thrice-emptied bowls as they stood. Conversation had been flowing so easily that neither of them had wanted to end the evening yet, so Cas had proposed finishing their drinks in the living room, perhaps seeing if anything was on TV. Dean wandered out of the kitchen, still chuckling over the last joke Cas had made. Who knew courtroom humor could be filthy? Sam had been holding out on him.

"You know," Cas said, speaking loudly so that Dean could hear him, "I didn't plan it, but if I'd been thinking, and knowing what I know now, I would have chosen exactly that meal. Science says that spicy food can actually make people happier. It's something about the capsaicin and body chemistry." Finished with the dishes, he joined Dean in the living room, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. "Not that I'd pretend to know more than what you tell me about your life, but...you've seemed down lately. Tense?" He tilted his head to the side, smiling at Dean without judgment. "In any case, I hope the peppers helped. God knows, I couldn't give a single shit about windmills right now, so I know they helped  _ me." _

Though his shoulders had started to tighten when Cas mentioned his mood, the personal quip immediately put him back at ease. He was reminded of why he had come here, what he'd decided there was no harm in wanting: to be a friend in whatever way he could, and to help him out however he was able. As long as he focused on that, nobody ever needed to think about Dean's own personal issues.

"Maybe you should start spiking the break room food with hot sauce," he joked, keeping the tone light. Cas grinned, graciously allowing the deflection.

While Cas settled on the couch, Dean ran his eyes around the room. It wasn't exactly what he'd expected. Professional, polished guy like Castiel, Dean had anticipated a room out of  _ Architectural Digest _ or something, with subtle and expensive knick-knacks and furniture you'd be afraid to sit on. This wasn't that. The room was tidy and well-organized, but it was definitely comfortable; there were animal-themed coasters on the coffee table instead of any kind of decorative arrangements, and the walls bore informal photos instead of oil paintings. Dean stepped closer to examine one photo. It appeared to be Cas, with his arm around the shoulder of an attractive blond woman who held a pig-tailed little girl.

"Don't get confused," Cas said, wry humor in his voice. "I have a twin. There's no secret mate or pup hidden in my attic."

"I...didn't…" he stammered, flustered. He knew from Cas's scent that he wasn't mated, but it seemed weird to say that he'd thought about it consciously.

"Relax, I'm kidding." Cas still sounded amused, but he blushed a little as well. Grabbing the remote, he quickly turned on the television. "Any viewing preferences?"

"Whatever you'd usually watch is fine," Dean said, curious about his host's tastes. After flipping for a few seconds, Cas settled on a serial crime drama, tacitly checking for Dean's approval with raised brows.

"Fine by me, but it's a little surprising," Dean teased. "Lawyer watching courtroom shows? Isn't that like doctors watching medical dramas? Doesn't piss you off with the mistakes?"

"Criminal law is an entirely different universe from what I do, Dean. Nobody would bother trying to make good television out my my day," Cas returned. He paused, then added, "Besides, the police sergeant is hot." He watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, obviously gauging his reaction.

"Huh," Dean said, processing.  _ Well, he's into guys, then. _ Cas was smirking ever so slightly, and Dean's mouth moved before his brain caught up. "He's not bad, but the district attorney has a better ass."  _ Danger! Danger! Abort! _ Cas snorted, and they both laughed again, though there was a crackle in the air that hadn't been there before. Dean had trouble concentrating on the program, too aware of the man sitting next to him.

It was a rerun, anyway, one that he'd seen a while ago. It came back to him when the story reached the part showing the central crime being investigated; a female omega, wide-eyed with terror, was chased down the street by an attacker, then beaten badly. Dean shifted uncomfortably. The first time he'd watched the episode, he'd been frustrated by the way the woman had been portrayed so stereotypically: clumsily trying to run in the highest heels the costuming department could find, crying, helpless. He'd wanted her to fight back, to hit, to claw, to grab one of those bricks lying around for no reason he could fathom and to use it on her attacker's head. 

Now, he felt disturbed for a different reason. Words came back to him, echoing in his memory.  _ "You threw the first punch,"  _ Dr. Bradbury said, eyes disappointed. Sam's voice:  _ "He thought the best way to deal with a group of rude alphas was with his fists." _ Ellen's lips compressed, disapproving as she shook her head at him from where he lay on the floor. And Cas, smelling of anger when he found out Dean had fought.

_ What am I supposed to do?  _

"Dean, is everything okay?" Cas was watching him with concern. "I can change the show if you like." 

"No, you don't have to do that. I'm just…" He didn't want to explain. He  _ really  _ didn't want to accidentally find himself blabbing about the asshole alpha at the mall, the horrible scent of whom had come back to him strongly as he stewed. "It's okay. No big deal."

"Dean, I'm not going to prioritize a television show over your peace. You're bothered, and you don't need to tell me why, but I'd rather you didn't pretend you were fine when you clearly aren't." He wasn't making any demands or using his alpha presence to force Dean to obey, but Dean found himself anxious about letting him down anyway. He bit his lip and stared at his hands in his lap.

"Okay, it's  _ not  _ fine, but that scene'll be over soon, and I can deal," he said. "And it's not like I'm traumatized or anything, so don't worry. Just bugs me."

"I can certainly understand," Cas said, and of course, he really couldn't, Dean knew, but he was trying, which helped. "I don't really enjoy seeing that sort of thing portrayed as entertainment, either, and I likely would have changed channels even if you weren't here." Dean suddenly realized that the TV was now showing a cable news program instead of the drama; Cas had apparently switched over immediately, without him noticing.

"You didn't have to," he muttered. Guilty feelings churned in his gut, his stupid issues having forced Cas to accommodate him as though he was too fragile to cope.

Cas frowned. "Yes, I did. Dean, don't you see..." He shook his head, cutting the thought off before completing it. "I know we don't know each other very well, though I'd...well. But it would be arrogant of me to assume we were close enough that you could talk to me about personal matters. I do hope, though, that there is someone with whom you feel comfortable talking. Sam, perhaps? You two are close." He was being so visibly careful that Dean cringed.

"Dude,  _ please  _ do not worry about me, okay? I'm serious." Cas simply gazed at him patiently but steadily, waiting; Dean fidgeted under the weight of his focus. "I've got people. Not Sam. He's not...he wouldn't get it. I mean, this kind of thing. My...stuff."  _ Good thing we're not trying for that impression of intelligence anymore. _

"Perhaps you don't give him enough credit," Cas said slowly, obviously considering what he was saying, not just casually assuming.

"Hey, don't get me wrong. Believe me, I know exactly how awesome Sam is! I mean, I should—I've watched him grow up, every step of the way. He's a freaking genius!" He couldn't help the burst of pride he always felt when he thought about that. "But it's more than just that. I mean, even if I was as smart as he is, he's also got that ability to actually use the brains and make something of himself, and I've never had that. Plus there's the whole, uh, omega thing, which I get, you know?" 

"No, not really." Cas was frowning again, though it was a different sort of frown. His sharp stare was so intense that he seemed to be trying to see right into Dean's brain.  

"Dude, you know!" This was becoming unbearable; he desperately wished for another endorphin top-off. "Just the stuff we gotta go through every day! It's not all being chased down dark streets or dramatic confrontations with savage attackers."  _ Except when it is. _ "Most of the time it's just double-standards and assumptions and expectations and…" He ran out of steam, irritation evaporating, leaving him simply tired. "He can't get that. But it's fine, because I'm glad he doesn't have to."

The look on Cas's face, and the horribly thick smoky scent rolling off him, made Dean wish he'd kept his mouth shut.  _ Should have just told him the bad acting was getting on my nerves. Should have just left after dinner.  _ Dean grimaced apologetically. "Well, you said you wished I could talk about it. Bet you won't make that mistake anymore, huh?" he said, attempting to lighten the mood with a joke.

"I did say that, and I don't regret it. Your honesty...I only wish…" He sighed. "In hindsight, the peppers feel ridiculously inadequate."

Dean forced a smile. "Nah, they were awesome. Not a cure-all, but a fair attempt." He stood up, stretching. "Think you could point me at your bathroom?"

"Certainly!" Cas stood too, pointing down the hallway behind them. "It's the second door on the left."

Thanking him, Dean quickly ducked down the hall and closed the door behind him, breathing deeply.  _ Great going.  _ He'd wanted to keep the focus on Cas, and he'd wound up doing the exact opposite. An awesome night, ruined by his inability to stow his shit. Maybe the next item on his "grown-up choices" list should be acting classes, or poker lessons, or just anything at all that might teach him how to keep it together when people were looking.

When he felt a bit more controlled, he walked out of the bathroom and headed back toward the living room, but along the way, he caught a glimpse through a doorway on the other side of the hall that halted him in his tracks. "Cas? Hey, buddy?"

"Yes, Dean?" Cas came, following the sound of his voice, and when he saw Dean's face and where he was looking, he stopped, blushing. "Oh. You saw that."

"Yeah, I saw that! Is that what I think?" He took a step through the doorway.

Cas flinched. "I just got a little behind on household maintenance this week, and I didn't think this room would matter, but I forgot to close the door, I suppose…"

"What?" Dean paused, looking around more closely. "Oh, are you talking about the laundry pile? Dude, I could not care less about that. You wouldn't believe some of the creative ways I've dealt with clutter when Sam drops in. I'm talking about  _ that." _ He pointed toward the corner, where lights flickered softly along a scoreboard. "Is that Twilight Zone?"

"Oh, that!" Sounding relieved, Cas crossed the room to run a hand over the pinball machine fondly. "Yes, it was always one of my favorites. My brother once joked that with the amount of quarters I poured into the machine at the bowling alley, I should probably just buy one for myself, but I don't think he expected me to take him seriously."

"You bought a pinball machine." Dean felt like he was going to have emotional whiplash from this night. "That's  _ awesome." _

"I bought pinball  _ machines, _ plural. Pinbot and White Water are in the basement. And Galaga, which isn't pinball, but I found it for so cheap that I couldn't pass it up. Do you play, then?"

Screw grown-up choices. Being a kid again, just for the night, had never felt so fantastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband is completely straight, but I think he'd marry a guy who owned Twilight Zone and grew his own Reapers. (I like chocolate habaneros. Yum.)


	8. Where the Whiskey Drowns and the Beer Chases

Dean was not really a "baseball fan." He enjoyed watching the occasional game, though he admitted that it was probably due more to the accoutrements than the sport itself; cold beer and hot dogs made anything more enjoyable. Sam, on the other hand, had become deeply dedicated to his alma mater during his college years, and his allegiance to Stanford athletics was more akin to familial devotion than school spirit.

On this particular Saturday evening, apparently Stanford's baseball team was engaged in battle with hordes of demons. At least, that was what Dean could gather from the tone of Sam's voice and the way he was scowling at the television in Dean's living room. As far as Dean could see, the other team's jerseys said "California," not "Fiery Pit," but, then, maybe the devil was just a major sponsor. He chuckled, imagining Satan in face paint and a foam finger.

Despite the heated rivalry between the two teams, the game itself was heading toward a fairly one-sided conclusion; when Stanford was up by ten points at the end of the second inning, Dean stopped paying much attention. There wasn't a whole lot of entertainment to be had in watching a massacre. Sam seemed more distracted than usual, too, though Dean didn't pay much attention, figuring his brother was just bored as well. When the station went to commercial after the next inning, Sam cleared his throat.

"So, how've you been lately?" he asked. His smile looked weirdly tight, the sort of smile worn by receptionists at the end of a shift.

"I'm doing okay," Dean answered warily. "How about you?"

"Good, good. I'm good." Sam fidgeted with his bottle, frowning.

"You sure? Because you look a little tense, man." Dean ran an assessing eye over his brother quickly, noticing how stiffly he was holding himself. Even though Sam was obviously no longer the scrawny kid Dean had practically raised on his own, distant as their dad had been, he still couldn't help worrying about him.

"No, I'm fine!" Sam said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. " _I'm_ fine. You know?"

Baffled, Dean nodded. "Okay, so what I'm hearing is that you're just…"

"Fine."

"So that's good."

"Yeah," Sam said, sighing and glancing at the floor. "Good."

They sat quietly, watching a cartoon elderly couple hug and kiss on TV, blissful over erectile dysfunction meds.

Sam muttered under his breath, "Maybe a little tired of getting chewed out."

Dean wasn't sure whether he was supposed to hear that, or whether Sam was even talking to him or simply grumbling to himself. "Work stuff? Is it the wind farm thing?"

Sam grunted noncommittally, with an irritated shrug. Okay, maybe not work. Whatever was wrong, though, Dean wasn't inclined to just let it go. Shit, he hated talking about feelings. This was for Sam, though.

"Y'know," he hedged, "if there _was_ something wrong, and I'm totally not saying there is...you know you could, like, talk about it, right? With me? I mean, you could talk to me? I'm here." He took a gulp of his drink, glad to have gotten through that offer with dignity mostly intact.

"Yes," Sam said firmly. He turned to face Dean completely, eyes in full "sad puppy dog" mode. "Yes, I know. You're my _brother,_ Dean. I can talk to you about _anything,_ right? Because we're brothers."

"Um." Dean quickly tried to estimate how much they'd consumed of the twelve-pack Sam had brought over for the game. "Uh, yeah, man. Brothers."

"Dean," Sam said solemnly, eyes somehow getting even larger, "if there were anything wrong, anything that was hurting me, I _know_ that I could come to you. Nothing is ever going to change that, right?"

"Uh, right." Okay, now Dean was starting to freak out a little. Whatever was going on with Sam, it was obviously big. Was he sick? "Whatever it is, anything."

Sam just sat there, looking at him sadly. A minute of painful silence stretched between them. "So…" Dean finally said.

"Yes?"

"Was there something you wanted to, um, talk about?" His stomach was knotted anxiously.

Another long pause, and then Sam huffed and broke eye contact. "Not right now, I guess." A woman moaned over a juicy burger on the television screen, and Dean blinked and tried to remember when he'd finished his drink.

\---

"I'm worried about Sam. I think something's wrong with him."

He'd typed those words into his phone, stared at them, then erased them unsent. It was a revelation, really, realizing that he honestly had nobody he trusted to listen to him and be able to give good advice who wasn't also attached to Sam and likely to go running straight to him. Sam was obviously not ready to open up to his own brother about...whatever it was, and Dean wasn't about to go spilling his private stuff to anyone else they knew.

Castiel had pretty much offered to let Dean come to him at any time if he ever needed to talk, but Cas had known Sam first, so he was probably closer to him than he was to Dean, anyway. He could probably take it to Dr. Bradbury, but he knew she'd just ask him what he _thought_ he ought to do, and he didn't need to pay an hourly fee to say that he had no clue. This felt like the sort of situation where characters in movies would go spill their guts to a bartender, but all the bartenders around knew Dean too well to be objective, and when you've reached the point where you're considering driving out of town and finding a new bartender just so you can get advice from a stranger...Dean thought that was probably a sign to abandon that strategy.

So he'd had no other real options.

"Dude. That sucks, man." Ash and Andy gazed at him with bleary sympathy. He knew he probably couldn't expect words of wisdom from them, but he was hoping maybe for a few words of potentially semi-helpful suggestions.

"You don't think he's, like, in trouble with the government, do you?" Andy hadn't been awake yet when Dean had called, and it looked like he probably would have benefitted more from strong coffee than the tequila he was nursing, but Ash had insisted that since Andy hadn't really sobered up fully while he'd slept, it was simpler just to pick up where he left off.

"Man, it's Sam," Ash argued. "He _is_ 'the man.' They're not gonna come after one of their own. The other guys, though...they might."

"Come back to reality, guys. It's not that." This was ridiculous. Dean decided he definitely needed a wider circle of friends. He loved these guys, but he didn't need conspiracy theories at the moment. "Okay, this was a bad idea. I'll find some other way to handle it. Maybe he still talks in his sleep, like he did when he was a kid. I could take him on a road trip, drive through the night and see if he spills."

"Good plan," Ash nodded. "Let me know when you're going. I might have a package or two to send with you."

"You don't even know where we're going. _I_ don't even know where I'm going."

"Doesn't matter. I have people everywhere."

"I'm not gonna ask." Dean yawned, relaxing back into the seat. He hadn't been out with his friends in a couple of weeks, and even if he couldn't get the advice he'd wanted, they did have a knack for taking his mind away from his nagging concerns.

"Dean, what are you wearing?" He hadn't noticed Meg come in the bar, and she was now leaning over the booth to grab the collar of his overshirt. "This is not one of the shirts we picked out."

"No, it is not," he agreed. Most of those clothes were still in a bag in his room, since he hadn't gotten around to washing them and putting them away yet. "Why would I need to dress to impress around you guys? You know me. You gonna change your opinion of me if I'm in a fancy shirt?"

"Eh, probably not," Meg acknowledged. "Still, the view could always stand to be improved. That was a lot of effort, you know. Anyway, wasn't it supposed to be about some big life change?"

"Yeah, well." Dean grimaced. "It's a work in progress."

"Aren't we all," Ash said, lifting his glass in a toast. Dean sighed, but he clinked his glass against Ash's, and they drank. His phone pinged in his pocket, and he knew without looking who it was, but he decided not to check it right then, sitting in front of the group. Unfortunately, Andy decided to choose that opportunity to be helpful.

"I think someone texted you. Wonder if Sam wants to tell you what's wrong yet?"

"Something wrong with the giant?" Meg drawled. Scenting gossip, she plopped herself on the bench beside Dean.

"He's fine."

"You said he—"

"I know, Andy, thanks," Dean said. To Meg, he clarified, "It's just personal. Nothing to share with the class right now, 'kay?"

"Whatever. Then who's texting?" She looked completely bored, examining her nails, but Dean knew better. Meg was like a shark. As soon as she scented blood—or, in this case, his hormones wafting with tension—she'd attack.

"Dunno. A friend, probably."

"We're your friends. Who's not here? Work buddies?" She glanced at him. "Nah. You'd check if you thought it could be work. Means you know it isn't, which means you know who it is but don't want to say, so spill, Winchester." When he glared at her, she grinned. "You know if you won't, I'll just find another way, and it's all going to get way overblown and more dramatic than it is. Just pull out the phone."

Ash was smirking, enjoying the argument. Andy was gazing droopily, just waiting to see what would happen. Dean glanced at the bar. If he waited much longer to defuse this, Jo would come to greet Meg, and she'd get pulled in. Hissing through his teeth, he rolled his eyes and slapped his cell phone onto the table. "See? It's just a friend. Cas works with Sam, and I fixed his car for him."

Meg leaned over, reading the screen out loud. "Hmm. _'It would appear that Mr. (pardon, Doctor) SXY is no longer on top. I'm afraid the mighty have fallen, and your position has been usurped by one halo-sporting NGL. Sincerest condolences. You're welcome to come over again anytime to reclaim your title. I've also got some spicy new "experiments" I'm eager to test out on you!_ '" She fixed Dean with an expression of utter incredulity, then turned to Ash and Andy. "Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you…"

"Oh, knock it off!" Dean's face was burning, and he knew he was probably as red as one of Cas's naga peppers. "Look, the first part of that is just pinball. I use 'SXY' as my initials for the leaderboards. Like Doctor Sexy, the TV character! And he uses 'NGL' for angel, since his full name is Castiel, which is the name of some angel from the Bible. He's just trash-talking, since I beat him at pinball, and apparently now he's beaten my score."

"Right..." Meg drawled skeptically. "Just two bros playing pinball, calling each other 'sexy' and 'angel,' and making jokes about who's on top. Uh-huh."

"No, he's not...that's not…Meg!"

"Dean-o, the act would be more convincing if he weren't also talking about you coming over _again_ for...what was that? Spicy experiments?" She rolled her eyes. "Ash?"

Ash shook his head reluctantly and chuckled. "Sorry, man. Gotta go with Meg on this one. There's bromance, and then there's whatever the hell that is."

"It's just chile peppers," Dean grumbled, scowling. "You're reading it wrong. You just don't know him. He's not like that, and he's definitely not like that with _me_." The three other people at the table all stared at Dean in disbelief and amusement. He ran a palm over his face, trying to cool his flaming cheeks. "You'd have to meet him to know. He's really funny and smart, but I guess it's not coming through so you can get it with that text. He grows his own peppers, which are, like, legitimately award-winning, and I don't think I've ever met anybody who could match me habanero for habanero. But he's also this professional, sophisticated, genius who's just got everything put together, so it's not like that. We hang out, and it's great, but he's nice to _everybody,_ so...you know." Dean swallowed. The stares were actually increasing in intensity. "He's great, but it ain't like that."

"Hey, Dean." Meg ran a tongue over her lips, thinking. "When we took you clothes shopping, were we dressing you up for any particular reason that you forgot to divulge?"

"No, I told you! That was for me! Nothing to do with Cas."

"Yeah, sure. Look, I've got no problem with self-improvement, but maybe you needed to write 'learn how to tell a credible lie' on your little napkin."

"You like him, Dean," Andy said, face full of sincerity. "It's cool."

"No! No, it isn't! Or it wouldn't be, if it were true, which it isn't! _If_ I was into him—if!—it would _not_ be cool, because there's no way it could ever work, and I'd end up miserable, or else he'd find out and get pissed, or maybe just get all sad and try to let me down easy, because he's perfect like that…" The tirade trailed off, and he dropped his head to the table with a thunk. "Just shoot me."

"Vodka or whiskey?"

He sighed. "Whiskey, but just one. I think bad choices are hiding behind the glass after that."

"Bad choices or unconsciousness," Ash mused.

"Even my unconscious brain is making bad choices these day," Dean muttered.

Ash snickered as Andy got up to grab the round of drinks. "Don't judge the brain for what it does at night, man. Just enjoy the ride."

"I don't think I've drunk enough to enjoy jokes about Dean riding anything," Meg snorted. Dean blushed harder than he had before, and Meg made a face.

"Not what I meant, but, hey, enjoy that, too," Ash said with a wink.

"Dude, no!" Dean was mortified.

"Now, wait. Why not? I mean, I get your other freak-out. Well, I don't, but I _really_ don't get why you're freaking over even _thinking_ about getting it on with Angel Lawyer Boy. I mean, Jo and I are pretty solid, but I'm not gonna apologize for the occasional fantasy about Chris Evans. No harm, no foul!" Meg took her shot glass from the tray Andy brought over, holding it high.

"Not the same," Dean protested. "It's like...okay, you've got Chris Evans, or somebody like that. Gorgeous, sure, and he sounds genuine and smart and funny in interviews, and there's probably a million people who fantasize about naked fun times with him, but he doesn't know them, and they don't know him, so it's sort of irrelevant, right? But now imagine that Chris Evans is sitting here with us in this bar."

"Hell, yeah!"

"Down, girl. Say he's one of our friends, and he's still hot and muscley and likes to rescue tiny kittens and snuggle them without his shirt on. But he also comes over and eats food out of your fridge, and he knows your kid sister's nickname, and he sings along with the car radio, and you know that you don't try to call him on Thursday nights because that's when his mom calls. If you know all that, then it's just creepy to have him show up in the spank bank."

"Is it?" Andy looked confused and a little guilty.

Meg shook her head. "Sorry, nope. I mean, I'm not saying it couldn't get there eventually, but there is a huge difference between the naughty thoughts born out of legitimate feelings and the creepy stalkery thoughts rooted in delusions. Dean, only way this gets creepy is if you keep lying to yourself. And to him! Because, I'm telling you, sweetie, that text was not written by some ridiculously innocent guy who has no idea what he's hinting at."

Andy and Ash nodded. "You should bring him here sometime," Andy suggested. "Only let me know ahead of time, because it's probably better to be sober around lawyers."

Dean just shook his head. No way would he throw Cas to these wolves. He pulled his phone toward him and reread the text. It was funny how, looking at it from one perspective, it was a totally normal message for Cas, not much different from any other texts he sent. From an outsider's view, though...yeah, it sort of looked pretty suggestive. But he knew Cas, and he knew better. The guy would probably be mortified if he realized the possible innuendos behind his words. And, of course, even if he realized, Cas couldn't ever suspect that Dean would now be filing away those "flirtations," knowing that in his weaker moments, he'd let himself imagine they were real.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I initially had this conceived as a tidy little story that would have wrapped up a chapter or two ago, but I think Dean needed a little more time. 
> 
> Also, I know almost nothing about college sports, and I spent way too much time yesterday trying to figure out why Stanford, who's in the PAC 12, actually played Kansas (Big 12) at baseball a few days ago. ADHD is a killer, yo; those rabbit holes of tangental research get me every time. And then I got sad because within the space of minutes, I found out that A) Stanford and Cal have this huge rivalry, but B) Cal is apparently dropping their baseball team entirely, so that was anticlimatic.
> 
> I'm like Dean. Hot dogs are good.


	9. Blinding Him with Science

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a little time to finish a Big Bang fic, and now we're back! For everybody who wanted more Charlie-as-therapist, here you go.

"So, how is my favorite patient doing today?" Dr. Bradbury aimed a brilliant smile at Dean as he flopped bonelessly onto the sofa in her office. When he'd first started coming to see her, over a year ago, he'd perched rigidly on the edge of the cushions, as though relaxing would somehow make thoughts and feelings that he preferred to keep private come pouring unwillingly out of his mouth. As it turned out, it wasn't the sofa that had done that. Dr. Bradbury was _very_ good at her job, and she'd managed to have Dean opening up to her by the third appointment as though they'd been besties since kindergarten. "Besties"—her word, not his, and surprisingly not at all weird-sounding falling from the mouth of someone boasting an alphabet's worth of letters next to her name on her business cards.

Resting on formalities was impossible with somebody who used words like "besties" and fist bumped you to say hello. The couch deserved to be appreciated, anyway.

"Pretty good, I guess," he answered, considering. Compared to his last appointment, he was doing objectively better, no fights or major drama happening. He wasn't quite sure how to frame or get into any of the trickier, emotional stuff, though he knew the therapist had a bloodhound's nose for uncovering areas like that in his mind. He decided he wasn't going to hide anything, but it would be easier to let her be the one to pull it out.

"Hmmm, one of those kinds of days?" she said, smirking wryly. "You know you're not going to get away with 'pretty good.' Tell me about the self-improvement list! How's that been coming? I was really excited when you told me about that."

"I guess it's going alright," he said, shrugging. "Been trying to have at least one fruit or vegetable a day, which I know doesn't sound awesome, but it's something, right?"

"It's absolutely something. Little changes are far more likely to stick around and become routine than complete system overhauls. Do you know, it takes about seven weeks for something to become a habit? Almost two months of regularly doing the activity before your brain comes to expect it. That's with simple things, too. More complicated changes can take longer," she said, tapping her pencil on her fingertips.

"Well, that's good, because I've been taking the simple route for almost everything I'm doing," he replied. "I was going to say it was because I'm just lazy, but I like your answer better, so let's stick with that."

"Dean," Dr. Bradbury said disapprovingly. "Negative talk."

"Okay, okay." He almost rolled his eyes, catching himself at the last minute. It was one of her rules for their appointments: no passing judgment on himself or his feelings.

"And not just negative, but ridiculously untrue," she added. "You expend a great deal of energy and effort every day on work and on the people you love. If there's not much left at the end of the day, that's a matter of imbalance, not laziness."

"Right," Dean said slowly, considering. "So, like, if I decided to jump into training for a marathon, or become a vegan, that might swing the balance hard the other way, and everything would get screwed up."

"It would definitely be likely," Dr. Bradbury laughed. "But a banana with your coffee doesn't require a whole lot of priority shuffling. Keep it up! And what about that running routine that definitely isn't marathon training? Found the 'runner's high' yet?" He laughed, and they continued going through the various lifestyle changes he'd been trying with varied success.

He would never admit to Sam how grateful he was for the ultimatum that had sent him here in the first place. Sam had been shocked that Dean had opted for the therapist route when he'd insisted Dean "talk to somebody" in exchange for Sam talking him out of another "drunk and disorderly," but it had been a no-brainer. If Dean hadn't found his own counselor, he knew Sam would either find one for him (probably some new-age hippie guide who'd have argued for yoga as the answer to all his problems) or personally corner him at every opportunity for talks about his _feelings_. No, thanks. He'd found Dr. Bradbury's card on the corkboard at the bar; she'd winked when he told her so, admitting that her advertising strategy had gained her more than a few patients looking for better coping strategies than a bottle.

She never recommended yoga, that was certain. Instead, she seemed to know exactly the sort of no-bullshit approach that would make the most sense to him, cutting through his predictable efforts at deflection and joking to see all the issues he tried to ignore until they were too overblown and out of control to handle.

One example of how the therapist understood Dean was the tray of figurines and miniatures on the coffee table next to him. Dean tended to fiddle with things when he was uncomfortable, and Dr. Bradbury actively encouraged that, providing a large Zen Garden-style sand tray filled with all sorts of objects, from wargaming figures to tiny random collectibles. He'd quickly realized that she was subtly observing how he handled and toyed with the items, using it as another tool to discern what he was thinking. On days when he was feeling focused and calm, he might not fiddle with anything at all, while on particularly dark days, he might find himself digging violent trenches in the sand or mindlessly lining the figures up in ranks upon ranks.

When he'd realized how she was watching him, he'd teased her about her "sneaky mind-reading tactics," but she'd shrugged and said that she'd never claimed to be sneaky about it.

Today wasn't a bad day, but Dean still found himself trailing fingers through the sand and picking at the miniatures, idly examining them while they talked. A pewter bumblebee, wearing a silly grin, made him smirk. _Cas would like this one,_ he thought.

Dr. Bradbury caught the look on his face, of course. "You like my bee?" she asked, smiling innocently. It was obvious that she thought there was something worth exploring.

"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding seriously. "You know, with my recurring nightmares where I'm lost in a beehive, and I'm naked and running late and forgot to study for a big bee test."

"Funny," she said, making a face at him. "Therapist humor—always appropriate and appreciated."

"You love me," he said smugly. "Nah, it just reminded me of somebody. A friend."

"A new friend?" That caught her attention more than the bee had, and she leaned forward in interest. "That's different. Someone you met through one of the new hobbies?"

"No, he works with Sam. He's…" Dean paused, not sure how to describe their friendship. Immediately, he cringed, knowing his hesitation would draw notice. "He's just another lawyer, but I did some work on his car for him. Nice guy, likes bees." He turned the figurine around in his hands, feigning disinterest.

"He took his car to your garage?" Oh, that tone. She was circling, prowling.

"No, I just did it as a favor," Dean said grudgingly. "I do that kind of thing for lots of people."

"I know you do, but usually only for your close friends and family, not casual acquaintances. Did he try to pay you?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't let him," he muttered.

"Okay. Doubling down on this game of twenty questions you're making me play," she said, lifting an eyebrow. "What other kinds of things have you done for him, just as a favor?"

"All right, knock it off, Doctor," he said grouchily. "I'm allowed to do nice things for people. Doesn't mean anything weird."

"No, but getting defensive might," Dr. Bradbury murmured. "Of course, there's nothing wrong with doing nice things for friends. I think we've definitely established that you have a tendency to show your love for others by taking care of them, doing favors, going out of your way for them. Remember the slippery slope, though? What we've talked about before, how you also tend to put your own needs behind what you assume others need or want?" She looked at him knowingly, and he sank back into the cushions with a stubborn huff.

"Anyway, you don't need to worry about that. I think Cas has read all the same books you have. Like I said, he's a good guy, and when I wouldn't take his money for the car work, he insisted on making me dinner."

"Oh? He cooked for you?" Her expression shifted only minutely, but Dean couldn't take one more person jumping to conclusions that were not only wrong but painfully so.

"Oh, not you, too!" he barked in frustration. "People cook for other people, and it doesn't have to mean anything more than that! It's just food, which everybody needs to, y'know, stay alive! Cas is just my friend, and that's all there is, and that's all there ever _could_ be!" He was ranting, waving his hands aggressively, but Dr. Bradbury just watched him coolly.

"You don't need to argue with me, Dean. I agree with you. I've cooked meals for plenty of people, ones for whom I had feelings and regular old friends. I like to cook, and I assume Cas does, too."

Deflated, Dean blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, he does."

"Apparently, based on your reaction, other people around you aren't seeing it so simply." She framed it as a statement, not a question, leaving him room to react at his own level of comfort. He appreciated how she did that, not pushing too much or forcing responses from him, even while refusing to allow him to change the topic. Perversely, that strategy frequently resulted in him opening up more than direct questioning would.

"No. In their universe, splitting a pot of chili with someone is apparently code for 'I want to fuck you,'" he muttered. She tsked, and he grimaced. "Sorry. But you get what I mean."

"I do," she agreed. "And if that's all the evidence, it would be a pretty big leap. Without knowing anything more about your interactions, I would be inclined to take the gesture at face value. What interests me more is how loudly you're defending that the alternative would be impossible. Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but can you tell me why you are so convinced?" She sat back in her chair, lacing her fingers across her stomach patiently.

 _Because he's brilliant. Because he's gorgeous. Because he's got everything together in ways I never will. Because he's so far out of my league, I'm amazed he remembers my name._ All those thoughts, said out loud, would lead straight into the forbidden area of self-deprecation. He frowned, noting the glint that appeared in her eye at his silence. "There's nothing I can say here that you're going to accept without debate, is there?" he said.

"You could tell me he's married," she suggested. "You could say he's not into men, or that he's a secret monk. Those would be valid reasons. If what you're thinking involves a judgment of your own worth, then, no, those arguments won't cut it. So? Married?"

He laughed humorlessly. "No, and none of the other stuff, either. Just an ordinary, single, alpha lawyer, with looks, brains, and personality."

"Who cooks, too. And I notice you didn't tell me _you_ weren't into _him_ romantically or sexually, which would also have been valid reasons that a relationship couldn't develop. Too late to add it now and be believable," she said with a smirk as his eyes widened. "So, as your therapist, it wouldn't be appropriate for me to ask you why you haven't, well, 'hit that.' And I can't advise you to pursue a particular relationship, particularly when I don't know anything about the other person except what you tell me. What I _can_ do is ask you to spend the time until our next appointment coming up with reasons why your own value is just as high as Cas's or that of anyone else. Why would someone like him want to be involved with you?"

Dean hated this assignment; he flushed red just imagining trying to talk about himself that way. It was the same question he'd been asking himself ever since he met Cas, only in his head it was more accusation than something he wanted to answer.

"You've been working hard on finding ways to improve yourself, which is wonderful, but please don't lose sight of the bigger picture," she continued seriously, gazing intently into his eyes. "You do so many things in which you can take pride, but being proud of what you do isn't necessarily the same as being proud of _yourself._ Just as much as your friends don't love you solely for what you do for them, you need to understand that you have worth beyond your successes."

"I'll...I'll try," he promised, hesitantly. "You know this is hard for me." Looking down at the bee figurine, still in his hand, he noticed he'd been gripping it tightly enough that the wings had left imprints in his palm. He gently placed it back in the sand garden.

"I know. Maybe think of it like one of your 'grown-up choices.' Part of maturing is learning to confront ourselves head-on and see who we actually are, the bad _and_ the good."

\---

That evening, working a later shift at the garage to make up for the time spent at his appointment, Dean peered thoughtfully at the engine he was repairing. He considered what Dr. Bradbury had asked him to do, trying to apply it. He was a good mechanic; being proud of his ability to interpret what a car needed by the way it sounded and handled, then having the skills to break it down and do what needed to be done with efficiency and precision was a no-brainer. _I'm proud of my work,_ he thought. _But is that something I do or who I am?_

He glanced around the workroom, eyeing the other mechanics. Walt, in the corner bay, was looking at the clock with an irritated look; he did his job well, but it definitely wasn't any more than a job to him. Asa, on the other hand, had shown up a few years ago and practically begged Bobby to hire him just so that he could have a chance to get a look under the hood of the classic Mustang waiting in the lot to be serviced. Bobby had given him a chance, and his enthusiasm had kept him around as much as his admirable talents with a wrench. _Something he is, inside._

Experimentally, Dean switched gears and considered Castiel. Finishing law school, winning cases: those were things he had done, things Dean could definitely admire. Were they part of his value? Maybe, maybe not. The passion and drive that let him do them, though, along with the intelligence and the knowledge he used: those were part of what made him himself. Those were some of the reasons that Dean lov…that Dean _respected_ Cas. His stomach lurched as he shoved away the dangerous thought that had almost emerged out of nowhere.

Once he'd managed to regain the temporarily lost focus, he finally forced himself to return the focus to himself, examining himself the same way. _I am a mechanic. I love it, and I'm good at it. The work I do has worth, but also…_ His brain jittered away, uncomfortable; he gritted his teeth and tried again. _The parts of who I am that make me a good mechanic are…_ Ugh, why was this so hard? He closed his eyes and concentrated on remembering what Bobby wrote on his evaluations, which Dean usually signed in embarrassment, making jokes. " _Stubborn."_ Dean grinned, knowing the old man meant it as high praise in this particular context. " _Honest. Good with the customers. Appreciates the old cars but keeps learning about the new ones. Works too damn hard._ " That last one, too, was a backhanded compliment, considering how Bobby hid his smile when he was demanding that Dean hang up his overalls and go home at the end of a long shift.

If he could be proud of his work, then he _had_ to accept that the reasons his work was good were also valid. It was difficult, but he couldn't deny the logic. He still didn't think he was ready to say any of it out loud, but maybe it would get easier with time.

\---

_**6:12 PM Got a package from my favorite seed and garden supplier this afternoon!**_

The string of pepper emojis made Dean snort a laugh. They might have felt silly, but he knew how seriously Cas took his peppers, and how excited he must be to get started with a new set of plants.

**_6:15 PM I was serious about the offer to help you grow some of your own, by the way. I even ordered a few extra seedlings, in case you wanted to give it a try. No pressure, of course - I can always keep the extra plants, and you can still come over to enjoy the results._**

Meg would definitely tease him and call this a date. On the other hand, he reflected, Ash and Andy had never been anything but platonic buddies, and they definitely grew _things_ together. (Dean amused himself wondering whether the regional Garden Club gave championship ribbons for plants that weren't strictly legal.)

 _Definitely still up for it,_ Dean replied. _Got any good ones?_

**_6:21 PM You have no idea. They'll be here waiting._ **


	10. Lovely as Can Be (Lonely Just Like Me)

When Sam was a scrawny kid, clumsy on overgrown legs that had outstripped his brain's ability to control them, he'd gotten more than his fair share of scrapes and gashes from falling. It would also have been fair to say that part of the blame could feasibly have been attributed to a mischievous older brother with an dangerous imagination; left to his own devices, Sam would never have come up with ideas involving pillowcase parachutes or games of hide-and-seek in salvage yards. It was a credit to Ellen that when she inevitably hauled Jo off for a round of tetanus shots after their adventures, she usually rounded up both brothers for similar treatment. Sam now joked that he was convinced that had she not been around, one of them would have ended up with lockjaw by the time they turned fourteen.

Because of all that, Dean had been given numerous opportunities over the years to explore the many ways of removing a bandage from sensitive skin. He never liked hearing his baby brother cry, let alone being the cause of it, so he'd experimented with soaking the bandage first, numbing the area with ice, distracting him with jokes, counting down, or peeling it off millimeter by millimeter while frantically kissing it better. He'd eventually reached the conclusion that no method really worked, but one was better than the rest: a good, fast yank, no hesitation.

That philosophy was why he'd not really given himself the chance to think or worry about dropping by Castiel's house Saturday morning, a couple of pots and an old trowel in hand. Friends drop in casually, he'd decided; making a big deal out of anything would be falling prey to the stupid suggestions and insinuations everybody else was trying to convince him were true. Cas had repeatedly suggested that he was welcome to come by whenever he wanted, and ignoring that would make it look like he was nervous for some reason. Which he was, but that was his own business, and he certainly didn't want to have to come up with reasons for it.

Dean had deliberately put on worn, comfortable clothes, suitable for kneeling in the dirt—a problematic plan at first, since apparently even casual jogging several times a week could have an impact on the general shape of one's lower body. Many of his older jeans were getting tight in the thighs, making him worry about bursting out of them if he squatted. He had then timed his visit to account for the running club Cas had mentioned, knowing Cas always spent the rest of his Saturdays engaged in "shameless indulgence and inactivity," per his own words.

Dean now sat in his car at the curb, noting that Cas's vehicle was parked in the driveway and that his door was slightly ajar. He was obviously home, so there was no reason not to just march up and knock on the door.  _ Don't overthink. Rip off the bandage. _ He grabbed his supplies and clambered out of the car door.

He noticed the music just as he knocked on the doorframe.  _ "Don't let them in, don't let them see, be the good girl you always have to be! Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know…" _ His hand froze in place for a moment while he processed.  _ What the hell?  _ Then he heard footsteps, and the music got louder as the door opened and Dean was confronted with…well, it was Cas, but apparently not a version of him Dean had ever known existed.

Cas had little ribboned barrettes clipped into his messy bed hair, which was even more wild than it usually was. He had an assortment of sparkling necklaces draped around his neck, and the pink in his cheeks was only partly due to the blush of embarrassment heating his face; the rest was a thick layer of bright powdered makeup, only eclipsed by the frankly startling amount of blue eyeshadow caked onto his lids. His lips were also painted, a vivid and glossy red, smeared slightly on the side. 

Dean, dumbfounded, tried to say hello, but no words were forthcoming. A slight wheeze came from his throat instead, somewhere between a gasp and a nervous laugh. Castiel's eyes were enormous, and he seemed equally stunned into silence. He lifted one hand, apparently intending to run it through his hair unconsciously, but the barrettes got in his way; instead, the gesture had the effect of drawing attention to the sparkly purple and pink manicure he was sporting on his nails. Both men's eyes fell on the glittery paint, and Dean  _ broke,  _ undeniably giggling.

A moment later, Castiel's eyes communicated clearly the moment in which his brain decided to say,  _ Oh, fuck it. _ He smirked, pursing his lips like a supermodel and putting his hands on his jutting hips. "I'll have you know," he said, "that this is the very latest in haute couture. I wasn't sure about the color coordination of the accessories, but my stylist is  _ highly _ exclusive. She only accepts payment in the best mini-marshmallows." He glanced behind him and downward, and Dean finally noticed the small blonde child standing in the hallway, smiling crookedly.

"Dean, this is my niece, Claire," Cas said, bending his knees to lift the little girl in his arms. She was maybe about four years old, by Dean's best guess, and her face was just as coated with makeup as her uncle's, though she apparently favored hot pink lips for herself. "She's staying with me this weekend, since my brother and his wife are away at a marriage retreat. Jimmy likes to wait until the very last minute to tell me about these things, because apparently, as the token single sibling, my schedule is supposed to be  _ flexible. _ " He grimaced, then dismissed the complaint with a shake of his head. "Anyway, come on in!"

"You sure?" Dean hesitated. "I don't wanna, like, intrude on your time with her or anything. I can come back another day."

"I insist," Cas said, voice sincere. "We'd love for you to come have lunch with us! Then again, if the idea of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches doesn't appeal…"

"Are you kidding?" Grinning, Dean winked at Claire, who was staring at him in curiosity. "I love PB&J!"

Castiel grinned back. "Fantastic, then. If you don't mind, I'll be right back. I just need to, well…" He gestured at his face, wincing good-naturedly. "Claire, will you keep Mister Dean company for a moment?" He walked to the sofa and gently dropped the little girl onto the pillows, then turned and headed for the bathroom, waving back over his shoulder as he did.

Claire promptly stood up and walked over to Dean, not a trace of shyness about her. "I'm in preschool," she announced.

"That sounds fun," he replied agreeably. 

"It is sometimes," she said with a solemn frown. "Only I don't like it when we have to take naps. Do you have a dog?"

It had been a long time since Dean had needed to deal with the whipcrack non sequiturs in which small children preferred to communicate, but he tried his best. "No, no dogs or cats. I used to have a bunny, when I was little, but now I don't have a pet." He squatted next to Claire, making it more comfortable for her to talk without needing to stare upwards. 

"I like bunnies, but Mommy says I can only have fish." She took him by surprise when she suddenly put her warm little hands on his cheeks and stepped right into his personal space, gazing at him intently. "You have pretty green eyes like 'Punzel."

"I do?" He couldn't seem to break eye contact; she had the same brilliant blue eyes as her uncle (and presumably the uncle's twin, her father), along with the same apparent skill in using them to hold people in place and stare into their very souls.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty. I can make you pretty," she murmured, almost hypnotically. She hardly looked away from him as her hand groped on the table beside her, where a bag spilled play cosmetics over the surface.

Castiel's voice startled them both, breaking the spell and rescuing Dean, who sighed in relief. "Dean does have very pretty eyes, Claire, but I think they're pretty enough without a makeover, don't you?" He hurriedly swept the makeup back into the bag, then spun to tickle her under the ribs. When she laughed, he kissed her. "Besides, we're going out to play in the dirt with some plants, and if you paint his nails, they'll just get messed up. Now, go put on your shoes. I've got some rope, and maybe we can make a rope swing in the tree."

"Like 'Punzel's hair!" she squealed, dashing away. Dean stood, watching her in amazement. He'd forgotten how much energy kids had.

"Sorry about that," Cas said, using his fingers to check for any missed hair ornaments. His face was clean, but he hadn't bothered to remove the nail polish, Dean noticed with amusement. "She's firmly in a 'princess' stage. I'm not encouraging it, myself, but Jimmy's a sucker for it. Something about growing up in an all-boy family, with boy cousins and only boys in our neighborhood. He's enchanted by the novelty of it all. Amelia's going to lose her mind if he doesn't stop bringing home plastic tiaras and glitter-covered everything."

Dean shuddered, imagining it. "Amelia's your sister-in-law?"

"Yep," Cas confirmed, grabbing the pots from Dean and leading him through the kitchen to the back door. "She works with horses, training and boarding them, and I don't think I've ever seen her in a skirt, let alone rhinestones and heels. Rodeo-themed wedding," he added as an afterthought. "Anyway, we sort of expected Claire to be from a similar mold, but that didn't happen. Even when she's at Amelia's stable, she's singing to 'her ponies,' braiding their tails, and scolding her mommy for not riding sidesaddle, as ladies are ostensibly meant to do."

"She'll outgrow it," Dean reassured him. "I mean, how many of us actually grew up to be the superheros, cowboys, or astronauts we pretended to be in kindergarten?"

Castiel huffed. "Speak for yourself, Mister Winchester. I'll have you know that my superhero costume is merely out for repairs. I snagged my tights dodging missiles and leading the bad guys directly into a trap." They both snickered, making their way to the small shed at the side of the yard.

"Tights would be a great look with Claire's eyeshadow," Dean teased, happily relaxed and enjoying the banter. The sun was shining warmly, and Castiel's yard had filled him immediately with a sense of peace. It wasn't perfectly groomed or rigid with order; the plots and raised beds holding the plants and blooms that lined the edges of the yard were casually lovely, varied in size and shape, and spilling over with life. One corner of the yard contained a handful of trees, throwing a shadow over a small table and bench that stood beneath them.

"They do look good, but so impractical," Cas sighed, recalling Dean's attention. "Might switch to the full latex suit, at least during the months that aren't too warm."

Dean turned and eyed him. "I assume you mean spandex?" he said dubiously.

Cas blushed hard, redder even than when he came to the door. "God. Yes, of course. Spandex, not…" He spun and yanked open the shed door. Over his shoulder, he called, "They dropped Claire off at six this morning, and she's been going strong ever since. Can we just agree to blame my mortifying verbal lapses on exhaustion, please?"

"No argument," Dean quickly said, not least because the last thing he needed to do was spend time thinking about latex and Cas in the same context. It didn't help that his own mouth, unaccustomed to being kept on a tight leash, was demanding to throw back a retort to the effect of having pegged Cas for more of a studded leather kind of guy.

Cas returned with a long coil of rope in hand. By now, Claire was skipping in a circle in the middle of the yard, chanting yet another Disney princess anthem. "First things first. Let me get this strung over a branch, and she might give us a good ten minutes before we need to redirect her again." He strode toward a tree with branches several yards over his head, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"Toss it over, tie a knot, snug it up tight?" Dean suggested, and Cas nodded. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done; the nearby branches were too close and repeatedly thwarted their efforts to toss the rope over the branch that was the strongest candidate.

"I do have a step ladder, but I'm not sure it's tall enough to help," Cas sighed, glancing back at the shed.

"That's okay, I don't think we need a ladder," Dean said, dismissing the concern. "It's not  _ that _ high. I could lift you up, maybe." The corner of his mouth lifted as he thought, entertained by the silly mental picture. 

Cas folded his arms across his chest. "You may technically be slightly bigger than I am, but let's not be hasty. Why shouldn't I be the one lifting you? I could carry you on my shoulders, no problem." 

They stared at each other challengingly. Something about the way Cas was regarding him told Dean he definitely should not underestimate the man, just because he appeared more brainy than brawny. He recalled the muscles he'd seen outlined through a damp shirt, back at the grocery store when he'd first seen Cas out of a suit. His throat felt suddenly dry at the thought of sitting astride those shoulders, feeling the muscles under his thighs, his groin snugged against the back of Cas's neck… 

"Maybe I can just climb up there!" he blurted abruptly, voice embarrassingly high. Examining the tree, he had to admit it wasn't really a great candidate for scaling, with rather smooth bark and the lowest branches at least a good jump's height over his head. Still, he was determined to try. 

Deciding to start with the trunk, which would potentially be less humiliating than leaping for a branch and missing, he gripped with both hands and tested the sole of his sneaker against the bark. It promptly slipped. Behind him, Cas huffed.

"Really, Dean, I'm not—"

"No, hang on. I got this!" Gripping a little higher this time, he braced his foot more firmly against the side of the tree before lifting the other. Both feet slid down, and he scraped the inside of his arms catching himself from falling. Sensing Castiel's protest, he called, "Third time's the charm!" Jumping a little to get his hands high, he pushed his feet hard into the bark and squeezed firmly with his legs to stay in place. He didn't fall this time, but he had no idea what to do now.

A moment later, a firm pressure against his rear lifted him slightly. "Here," Cas grunted. "You just need to get a little... higher…" He shoved at Dean's ass with both hands, and Dean actually squeaked. Trying to cover it with a cough, he flailed one arm desperately over his head, searching for any branch which he could grab. Cas pushed again, and Dean tried not to whimper. He cursed the fact that the jeans he'd chosen for their gardening suitability were also the ones he'd stopped wearing because of how thin the denim had gotten across the seat; Castiel's hands were incredibly warm, and he swore he could feel each finger where it was pressed into his cheeks. In a moment, if he couldn't get up in the tree, he was going to start getting slick with arousal, and there would be no hiding anything from this position. Friends might help friends climb trees, but ass-groping was a bit much for Dean's brain to handle.

"Unf!" he cried, finally catching a tree branch in his fingers. It wasn't the most solid of grips, but beggars couldn't be choosers; he pulled hard, getting his other hand onto it, then twisted to swing his legs up. With all four limbs clinging to the branch, body suspended beneath it like an imitation of a tree sloth, he noticed that the branch he'd grabbed was thinner than the one he'd originally wanted. It creaked ominously as he struggled to pull himself on top.

"Dean, I'm a lawyer, not an insurance agent, but I know enough to be very nervous right now," Cas called, speaking slowly.

"Don't worry. I promise I won't sue." Finally sitting astride the branch, he looked down and exhaled deeply. "Now toss me the rope."

The first try fell far beneath Dean's reach; Cas's anxious face indicated how uneasy he felt about throwing things that might knock Dean down. "I'm more likely to fall if I have to reach out to catch, you know," Dean pointed out. Cas rolled his eyes and tried again, this time launching the rope more accurately. Once it was caught and in place over the branch they'd selected for the swing, Dean glanced around, considering how he was going to get back to the ground.

"You are too high to jump safely," Castiel warned, eyes wide. "I don't think I can promise to be able to catch you, either."

"Well, then, I guess I have to depend on your knot-tying skills," Dean said with a shrug. He hoped Cas knew what he was doing; he'd never been a Boy Scout himself, but he'd borrowed all the manuals from the library, teaching himself the things he'd never get a badge for knowing.

Castiel gave a quiet laugh, an interesting expression on his face. He grabbed the end of the rope and began twisting and threading, making a knot that Dean had never seen in a Scout manual but which would clearly hold just about anything the branch could support. Pulling the ends of the rope, he slid the knot upward, letting it pull taut at the top.

"Here goes nothing, then," Dean said. Cas's mouth dropped open, but before he could protest, Dean shouted, "Geronimo!" and hurled himself down off the branch toward the rope. He caught it in his hands, slid a few feet, and landed on the ground with a grin. Castiel just stared at him for a moment, shaking his head.

"So, Spider-Man, then?" he finally asked, gesturing toward the rope. "With the web swinging?"

"Bite your tongue!" Dean scowled in mock offense. "I'm a Batman guy! He had a Batrope in his belt, you know. Anyway, what was with the fancy knotwork?" He looked back up at the tree; Cas's knot looked almost decorative, spread against the bark. The style of it also looked rather familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Cas shrugged casually, smiling, but he reddened a little. "I…took a workshop class, once. Japanese, um, rope tying." Something in his eyes…Dean looked back up at the knot again, and recognition dawned on him: an unusual video he'd watched, and greatly enjoyed, long ago. His eyebrows shot upward.

"Cas, you kinky son of a—"  

"I thought it would be like origami, or mizuhiki cord winding!" He was laughing, flustered but not ashamed, and Dean couldn't help but join him.

"And when you got there and realized…?"

"The nude demonstration models were a tip-off, obviously," he said, gasping. "But I'd already paid, so…"

They both finally had to stop cackling to try to catch their breath, and Dean pointed up at the branch. "But I have to ask, man. For a rope swing?"

Cas grinned ruefully. "What can I say? You made me worried, and I knew that tie would hold you."

And damned if that wasn't the trigger to send Dean right back into his own blushes, thinking of the various ways that theory could be tested.    

\---

Much later, after Claire had swung and sung herself into an impromptu nap from exhaustion, and after Dean and Cas's hands had been scrubbed of dirt and fertilizer so they could enjoy their lunches, they sat contemplating the day's work with satisfaction. Castiel had raved over the seedlings that were his newest discovery ("They're chiltepins, ancestors of the  _ capsicum annuum _ cultivar, but these have been crossed with a pequin variety for consistency and a more lasting burn!"), and they'd potted enough plants to almost cover the back porch. Once he had managed to stop subtly (he hoped) staring at Cas's hands and picturing them doing naughty bondage things, Dean had worked hard enough to give his muscles a pleasant ache.

"Hey, let me ask you something," he said, feeling relaxed enough to open up a little more.

"Sure," Cas replied. "Anything."

"My, um, friend was asking me a few days ago about some stuff that got me thinking. What do you think is the difference between, like, who you are and what you do?" Cas frowned, pensive, and Dean went on, saying, "I mean, how much of what you do every day is part of who you are inside? I'm not making sense, I know."

"No, I think I understand," Cas replied. "I do think a lot of people probably spend most of their time just 'doing,' not even thinking about why. When I was in school, I had grand visions of what it meant to be a lawyer, trying to make an unfair world at least a little more just. Thought I could devote my life to helping people, working for a better system."

"Not taking on big bad wind farms?" Dean nudged Castiel's shoulder.

"Don't get me started," he grumbled. "But no, not what I had in mind when I set out. It's the very lucky person whose work and personal identity wind up a close match. Think about Claire." His smile softened at just the thought of the little girl. "She's four, and her entire life is wrapped up in being herself. She won't have to worry about  _ doing, _ or at least being judged for it, for years. Maybe that's why I relish the time I spend running, or on my peppers, or even silly pinball machines. Have to keep my inner Claire from being smashed to bits just because I had the misfortune to become a grown-up." He yawned and stretched lazily in the warm afternoon sun.

_ The  _ misfortune _ of growing up? _ Dean puzzled over that. "I think lots of folks probably wish they could be better at the adult side of things," he ventured reluctantly. 

"Mmm, maybe. But plenty of others swing too hard the other way and are miserable. Balance is the thing." He looked at Dean curiously. "You work very hard, Dean. It makes me happy to see you relax, to stop thinking so hard about what you should be doing."

"Me?" Dean barked a laugh. "If you only knew, man."

"I'd like to," Cas said, a little sadly, then glanced away for a second. "Your…friend. I hope they mentioned how sometimes our views of ourselves and others get distorted. I've heard you say some things about yourself that definitely don't match the man standing next to me right now. Sometimes, maybe, particularly if one has a habit of putting himself down…it can be helpful to trust someone else's judgment instead. Someone who sees more clearly."

Dean didn't know how to respond. Cas's voice had been a weird mix of frustration and hesitancy, clearly forcing himself to tread cautiously; on one hand, it made Dean want to shake him and tell him to speak clearly, but on the other hand, he had a feeling that was the last thing he wanted to happen. As long as there was a little ambiguity, he could keep telling himself that there was no way that Cas was saying what Dean thought he was hearing—what he badly  _ wanted _ to hear, in another world where things like that were plausible.

This wasn't that world, because even though the gang's teasing and Dr. Bradbury's probing had finally brought him around to the possibility that maybe Cas  _ might _ be attracted to him, he couldn't believe that there was anything  _ real _ there. Cas was no knothead alpha, reducing him to his sex, but there were still the hormones, the biology, and regular old chemistry. Once he could see past those, Cas would know better, and he'd regret anything that happened between them. 

The whole conversation had made him feel more confused than before he'd started talking. Instead of replying, he squatted next to a plant and examined the dirt. A minute later, they heard the sound of Claire's voice calling, awake and demanding company. They went back inside, effectively ending the discussion, and soon found themselves being forcefully led into a highly contentious game of Candyland, forgetting the more serious topic as they argued and laughed until they ached.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Gabriel, who's not actually going to be in this story, totally told Cas about that workshop, knowing his brother had no idea what shibari was.)


	11. Don't Go Walking Slow (The Devil's on the Loose)

At the expert's insistence, Dean's pepper seedlings remained in the company of the other plants at Castiel's house. 

"So let me understand," Dean had said, amused. "You bought the plants, sat and potted the plants, and now you're keeping the plants here. What I'm hearing is that I just spent the day helping  _ you  _ with  _ your  _ garden, pal."

"That's not it at all!" Cas had protested, placing small flags, colorfully designed by Claire that evening, in each pot. Dean's plants were flagged with bright red peppers and a firmly scrawled "MISTER DEEN." Several hours before, he might have been able to appear unaffected by the way she'd included him, but now Dean couldn't suppress his grin. "You said your earlier plants didn't produce well," Cas continued, "and I notice that your yard faces north, which could explain that. My garden is south-facing, giving it ideal sun exposure. These seedlings are going to grow tall, which means we'll probably want to put them in the ground and stake them rather than keep them in pots, so it just makes sense to have them here."

"I'm just teasing," Dean had said, lifting his hands in laughing surrender.

Cas had made a face. "But since they're still  _ your _ plants, I do expect you to come over to care for them. Especially once they're in the ground, they'll need weeding and watering. I will babysit them, but you're their parent." The sassy wink had tugged at something in Dean's chest.

He wasn't dumb. A house with a yard facing one direction often had a perfectly good yard on the other side, and Cas could easily have suggested that Dean keep his potted plants on his front porch instead of the back. Dean could even have planted them in the tiny "garden" beside the porch, currently holding a thriving patch of dandelions and a squat green shrub that refused to die no matter how badly it was neglected. The look of determination on Cas's face, challenging Dean to argue these or any other points, was clear: he wanted Dean's plants there because he wanted  _ Dean _ there.

And Dean couldn't deny that he wanted that, too.

It was a bad idea. It was so obvious a ploy that giving in to it couldn't be read as anything other than acknowledging and accepting the real reason behind it, and Dean knew he really ought to find a way to gently let Cas know that despite all that he'd been doing for weeks to  _ become _ the kind of guy who was good enough for Cas, Dean really, really wasn't. He felt like such a fake when he thought about it, like everything he was trying was part of a big act. Dean could practically hear Dr. Bradbury sighing loudly in his ear, but he couldn't help the way he felt.

Even so, with the way Castiel was watching him so intently, a tiny hopeful smile beginning to pull at the corners of his mouth…Dean couldn't do it. "Okay, but don't spoil them. No treats before bed."

And then, as days and weeks passed, he had no choice at all. Cas wanted him there regularly. Dean wanted to be there just as much. And now the freaking plants demanded it. He couldn't just dump the work on somebody else, right? Cas's yard had a side gate, which he was given permission to use at any time, and even on evenings when all Dean had time to do was pop in and give the soil a quick watering, he could usually count on at least a wave through the window and a wide smile beaming at him. 

One might have thought that the increased time spent together would have caused other kinds of contact to taper off, but that would have been a bad assumption. Castiel kept texting Dean, often about gardening-related matters ( **_"Jean, from the greenhouse, says that there's a high number of potato beetles hitting our area this year. Apparently, planting catnip around the plants helps, if you don't mind herds of stoned cats lounging about the yard."_ ** ). Sometimes he'd vent about work issues, and other times, he just mentioned whatever was on his mind. Dean was selfishly glad he hadn't stopped texting; he'd come to rely on Cas's missives as a way to get through his day feeling cheerful and connected, avoiding the too-silent moments that often dragged him into the darker parts of his own thoughts.

**_4:10 PM The annual Vintage Veggie Fest is happening over at the county fairgrounds this weekend. I'm planning to go, but I need somebody to come along and be a voice of reason for me, keeping me from buying a farm's worth of plants and produce. Save me from myself?_ **

It was a slippery slope. He was gardening with Cas, so he had no reason not to go along with him to "veggie fests," farmer's markets, or even (especially) a workshop on "Microbrews and Microgreens: A Tasty Combination." Teeny little sprouts start to get a lot tastier, Dean decided, after a solid buzz.

He was, though, starting to lose the battle of denial. One can only hop in a car with another person and go so many places together before one has to face the fact that those outings are definitely date-like. And it didn't help that, since so many of their date-like adventures ended with bags of food, many of the outings therefore had built-in follow-up, with either or both of them preparing and cooking what they'd bought, enjoying the results together. Well, what was Dean supposed to do, finding himself in possession of a bag of the best smelling strawberries he'd ever seen:  _ not _ turn them into a shortcake? And when Cas heard his plans and turned wild, pleading eyes on him, was he some kind of monster who could say no and  _ not  _ share? 

His inner omega definitely thought he had made the right choice, watching Cas lick the last of the whipped cream from his lips, humming in satisfied approval.

They didn't hang out every night, of course; Dean did try to keep some boundaries, and they both had other obligations. It was true that Dean was avoiding Ellen's bar and his friends, particularly after Meg had sent a group text with about thirty different pepper-based puns and dirty jokes. He was still in a weird sort of standoff with Sam, ever since their last attempt at a real conversation. Based on his fervent hope that whatever Sam wasn't able to tell him was emotional rather than medical, Dean had tried having him over and plying him with drinks, but Sam had just gotten more and more mournful every time Dean had deflected the conversation away from himself and back onto Sam, where it needed to be. Since then, things had gotten even more strained, and Sam had now begun emailing him cryptic image-quotes, with inspirational messages about strength and courage printed over sunsets and blurry waterfalls. God, he better not be actually dying, or Dean was going to kill him.

At least work was still fairly predictable. The rest of his life, too, seemed to be falling into little routines that made Dean feel warm inside in ways he wouldn't have imagined. Since his evenings were more structured, the running he was beginning to actively enjoy needed to be scheduled in the morning if he didn't want to run out of time or wind up jogging in the dark. That bit of planning—laying out the shoes and clothes before bed, recording his distances in a cheap pocket calendar he'd bought just for that purpose—gave him a sense of accomplishment that was a great way to start the day. In order to make that work, and not leave him depleted of energy by noon, he had to adjust his evenings, and so his little fantasy about the nighttime news and a single drink had started becoming his new normal. "Mellowing," he decided, was what he was doing, and he found that he  _ loved _ it. 

The guys at the garage teased him, asked if he was nesting. "Bite me," he cheerfully replied.

"You're acting like somebody already did," Asa teased back, before Bobby yelled that if they wanted to be gossipy old nags, there was a quilting group at the church down the street they could join.

Dean felt satisfied, but it wasn't making him lethargic; he felt more energized and alive than he had in a long while. Maybe it was the jogging, he thought. Heart must be getting healthier. Now that he could make it a few miles without trying to cough up a lung, he almost felt like he could call himself a "real runner." No way did he feel confident enough to join Cas's club yet, but maybe running with one other person would be fun. He thought about asking Sam, seeing if he wanted to get together; maybe when the endorphins were flowing, Sam would be more inclined to open up.

_ Hey Sam, you still jog, right? _ he texted.

**_12:08 PM On weekends and when I can fit it in during the week. Why?_ **

_ Been doing some myself. Wondering if you wanted to go together, maybe? _

**_12:12 PM Absolutely! Running can be such a great tool for dealing with difficult feelings. <3_ **

Dean ran a palm down his face. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea, after all.

\---

It was about a month later, around the time when the pepper plants were bursting with gorgeous blooms that promised bushels of pain, when Dean's confidence and comfort finally hit that tipping point in which questionable decisions are made.

It was just that, while everything in his life had been going at least moderately well, he seemed to have lost his momentum, the bursts of stimulation he'd been getting from trying new things on a frequent basis. Dr. Bradbury kept asking for updates, and he felt like he was almost disappointing her a little when he didn't have anything new to share. Simply expanding what he was already doing felt anticlimactic, but he wasn't sure what he could start next. He'd misplaced his napkin, and the only thing he could remember from it was "doing taxes." Not the right season for that, anyway. 

It seemed almost like a personal message when he saw the flyer jammed under his windshield wiper as he was leaving work. Ordinarily, somebody touching his Baby like that would have pissed him right the hell off, and he did feel his blood rush a bit before he actually looked at the logo and realized it was from a pediatric cancer center. Dean wasn't so much of a dick that he could be mad at sick kids, he thought.

Noting it was for an upcoming fundraiser, he briefly considered taking it back inside the garage to pin on the bulletin board. Then his eyes caught on the details: "5K Run/Walk to support our new Whole Family Support program." The wheels in Dean's head started turning immediately. It would be for a good cause—hell, one of the best. The race was in a park that was actually within walking distance of his house. Lastly, it could give him a taste of the type of personal challenge he'd been missing.

There was nothing inherently weird about running a 5K, of course. Dean knew that. People did them all the time, strolling through them leisurely or jogging for the unpressured fun of it. Okay, so maybe some of his friends would give him funny looks if he announced plans to participate, especially since he hadn't exactly made it public knowledge that he'd started or kept up with the running routine. After all, it was nobody's business but his own. There was also the voice in his head that had reminded him that when he fell back into his sedentary patterns, he wouldn't be letting anyone down if nobody knew about it in the first place.

Telling anybody he was doing a 5K…that would get people's attention. He didn't know which would be worse, the people who laughed about somebody like  _ him _ doing something like  _ that, _ or the people who supported and encouraged him who would be disappointed when it went poorly. Because he didn't want to do the race just to casually walk to the finish line. Closing his eyes, he imagined sprinting to the end, sweating and beaming with pride. 

_ I can tell people afterward, _ he decided later as he pulled up the race website on his laptop,  _ or maybe just show up in the race shirt, not say anything. No pressure _ .

The race distance was no big deal, Dean mused. He was covering more than that distance on his regular jogs now, so he knew that wouldn't be a problem, even pushing his speed. On the other hand, his desire to keep his hobby to himself had kept him constraining his route to the blocks immediately around his house, not venturing into outlying areas. The race's park, he realized, had at least one hill that was far more steep than anything he'd done. He pulled up a map of the park and studied the elevation chart, giving a low whistle. That needed a closer look, preferably with nobody around to witness.

Sunday morning, as the sun was just rising, Dean pulled on old shorts and a tee, setting out on his "reconnaissance mission." The shorts made him grimace; they weren't something he'd ever consider wearing in public, normally, but the weather was simply too warm and muggy for the sweats he'd been wearing. With luck, he'd be finished and back home before anybody was out and about to see.

Since the park was a couple of miles away, and he didn't want to be tired before he even got to the hill in question, he walked briskly instead of running. Even so, by the time he reached the park entry, his shirt was damp and he was sticky from sweat.  _ Ugh, Kansas summers. _ Hoping the trees hanging over the trails would at least give cooling shade, he started to jog. Unfortunately, he quickly realized, he wasn't the only one trying to take advantage of the early morning hours; plenty of people were walking dogs and strolling the paths, mostly in silence or in the isolation provided by headphones and portable music players. Dean still blushed self-consciously, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention at all to him.

He was just beginning to relax and let down his guard when he caught a scent that pierced through all the smells of grass, dirt, and general nature that had been permeating his senses. It was bitter, aggressive, and seemed to  _ demand _ his attention, as did the dark laugh from off to the side of the path, from the shadows where he hadn't noticed anyone standing.

"Little omega, out to play?" a nasal voice said mockingly. A tall man was leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette. His eyes traced up and down Dean's body, lingering on the skin bared by the shorts. "Such a lovely day for it."

"Not playing," Dean said. Every fiber in his being was on red alert, screaming for him to shut this down  _ now,  _ but he hesitated. The alpha looked skinny, pale, probably more bark than bite, but something about the way he lazily lounged there spoke of a confidence gained from experience. The way he sneered at Dean's response supported that suspicion.

"Oh, there's always time to play," he drawled. "And you came dressed so prettily, too. It would be a shame to let you go without at least a game or two. What do you think, little omega? Hide and seek? Duck, duck, goose?" He hissed the last word suggestively, eyeing Dean's ass with appreciation.

Dean's fists clenched at his sides, wanting to punch, to fight. He gritted his teeth, mind working frantically.  _ "Dealing with your problems with your fists again," _ a voice whispered judgingly, Sam's or Ellen's or Dr. Bradbury's or Cas's, or maybe just his own, he didn't know.  _ Have to be smarter, have to be better, have to...have to…  _ "You need to leave me alone. I'm not interested." Keeping his eyes lowered, unprovoking, he began to walk away.

"Don't think so," the alpha teased in a lilting, sing-song voice. "I think you're going to stay right here with me." Without seeming to hurry, he was suddenly slightly ahead of Dean, grinning broadly as he stood just beside the trail. He wasn't blocking the path, but he seemed to be testing whether Dean would challenge him by passing. His scent, playfully aggressive, hinted that he wanted the challenge, was hoping Dean would fight.

_ How long ago did I pass someone last? Is there anyone coming behind me? _ The frustration was enormous, making his chest tight.  _ One good fist to the face… _

The way he'd frozen in place must have sent a green light to the alpha, who sighed in mock disappointment. "If you won't run, I suppose we'll have to play a different game. Do you know 'Alpha Says'?" With that, he closed the space between them and put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Spinning wildly, Dean's mind flashed to the crime show he'd seen at Castiel's house, seeing the omega stumbling away from her attacker, remembering his own desperate wish to see her defend herself. Without conscious decision, he surrendered to instinct, letting his fists fly; he heard himself cry out inarticulately as his knuckles connected with bone and cartilage. 

He'd never know for sure how many times he hit the alpha or how much damage he did; he only registered the sound of cursing as the man stumbled away, gripping his bloodied face with both hands, eyes glittering malevolently. Looking enraged, about to react with force, the alpha opened his mouth to speak, but was suddenly interrupted by the sound of barking coming from around the bend. With a last, hate-filled look, he stepped into the trees and disappeared.

Dean didn't wait before turning and dashing back toward the park entrance as fast as he could. His stomach churned with relief, adrenaline, fright, and shame. He needed to be home, away from everything and every staring eye that looked on him and judged.  _ Weak. Helpless. Stupid. Animal. Worthless.  _ It wasn't logical; at once, he felt the shame both of having resorted to violence to defend himself and of having been so slow to do so.

Running blindly, he didn't register the sound of his name being called until it was being shouted practically in his ear. He stumbled, and Castiel, obviously running to catch up to him, skidded to a halt beside him.

"I didn't expect to see you out here," Cas puffed, resting his hands on his knees. He was sweaty, dressed in his running clothes, and his hair curled damply on his neck. He was smiling, but his expression quickly dropped as he took in Dean's appearance and scent. "Dean, are you all right? What happened?" His eyes immediately caught the sight of blood on Dean's knuckles, and his face went pale.

Dean felt like vomiting. At his lowest moment, when all he wanted was to hide and just stop  _ being, _ the last person in the world he wanted to see him—to look at him with those wide, concerned eyes—was Castiel. He hated himself more than he had ever hated himself in his life; he was disgusted at how he had once more proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, just how pathetic he really was, no matter what he tried.

Cas reached for his bloody hands with worry, and Dean couldn't help flinching away; the reaction caused Cas to immediately retract his own hands, holding them out placatingly. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to overstep or make you uncomfortable. If you fell and injured yourself, I can help you clean the scrapes."

"No, I didn't—" A split second after he spoke, he realized that a fall would have been a perfectly good lie, one that Cas would have accepted without question. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. "I mean, I can clean up on my own. I just need to get home." 

It didn't seem that Cas was willing to let him go so easily. "Something happened, Dean. You smell…" He cut himself off, frowning. "I know you don't like to ask for help, or talk about things that are bothering you, even when you  _ clearly _ need to, but right now you are in obvious distress and a state of panic, and I  _ need  _ you to let me  _ help. _ Please." Cas was almost shaking, Dean saw, and he felt his heart shattering at the thought of how much he didn't deserve that care. He remembered with pain the scent of anger that surrounded Cas at their first meeting, when he'd learned how much of a stupid brute Dean was. 

"I'm okay," he muttered. "I...took care of it." He shuffled backward, eyes fixed on the ground.

"Took care of what?" Cas pressed, voice determined, frustration leaking through.

"It was…Look, I know I shouldn't have, but he wouldn't  _ stop,  _ and I  _ tried _ to just talk and be adult about it, not just be an idiot who thinks with his fists, but then he grabbed me, and I just  _ panicked,  _ and it was dumb, I know, but—" He found himself close to tears, choking on the words.

"Where?" The suddenly furious scent made Dean cough, and he couldn't make himself meet Castiel's eyes. He smelled strangely possessive, too, for some reason, which hurt even more.  _ He's not my alpha, even if his instincts are confused. _

"Just my shoulder, on top of the shirt. He didn't…he didn't  _ touch _ me. It's okay. Don't…"  _ Don't be mad because you can smell him on me, don't lose control because I couldn't stop him from touching me, because I'm not really yours, I'm not good enough, I'll never be good enough. _

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "Dean, you misunderstand me. What I am asking is  _ where he went. _ " Startled by the increasing anger and violence in the air, Dean looked up and saw that Cas was actually glaring back down the path in the direction from which Dean had run. 

"Um," Dean stammered, bewildered. 

"This is the way toward the only exit out of the park. Did you injure him enough to keep him from climbing the fence?" Cas growled. "I mean to leave him in  _ pieces." _ His eyes were beginning to glow alpha red around the edges as he grew more and more furious. He began to stride down the path deeper into the trees.

"Cas, wait! No!" Dean called, horrified. He couldn't comprehend how things had gone from "violence is inexcusable and foolish" all the way to "share the kill and hide the body" so quickly. "You can't just go hunting people down! It's no big deal, I promise! Look, I got away from him, and I'm...I'll be fine." He struggled to get Cas's attention, to get him to calm down. In desperation, he grabbed Cas's arm, holding it firmly. "Don't worry about me, okay? Just…you don't have to worry about me." He finished lamely, as Cas turned to stare first into his eyes, then at his gripping hand, still covered in blood. 

"Don't…worry…about…" Cas repeated, as if the words were completely incomprehensible. Turning to face Dean, his expression went through a series of complex transformations, finally settling back into frustration, though without the hostility. "You honestly believe that this is somehow acceptable, don't you? Just something you have to put up with because…because it's you?"

"No, not  _ acceptable, _ " Dean mumbled uncomfortably. "Just maybe not worth you getting into trouble or getting hurt."

Cas made a vexed noise in his throat. "If it were somebody else—a stranger, even—and you'd come upon them being assaulted here in the park, would you say that it wasn't worth getting into trouble for you to intervene?"

"Of course not! But—"

"Or if it were Sam? Or Jo? If someone laid a hand on them with intent to harm them, would you hesitate to go after the culprit because you might be hurt?"

Dean growled, unable to even imagine how he would feel. Castiel placed his free hand on top of the one with which Dean was still holding his arm.

"Dean Winchester, you are the most infuriatingly protective, loyal, fiercely devoted, stubbornly self-sacrificing man I have ever had the pleasure and the complication of knowing, and if I live to be a thousand years, I will never be able to comprehend how you can view yourself as so unworthy of what you give to everyone else around you without even blinking."

Dean tried to step back from the burning intensity of Castiel's glower, but he found himself caught. Cas went on talking, as if he didn't notice the attempt. "You consistently put yourself down, dismissing your own achievements and your successes, while making  _ excuses  _ for the people who hurt you or take you for granted. You barely knew me, and yet you made me pie and fixed my car. You deserve at least as much compassion and consideration as you give to others—more, because despite everything you endure without even asking for help, you still somehow manage to be the most beautiful person I've ever met, both inside and out, and I—"

In fairness, it had been a really hard morning. Dean was drained and exhausted, and he definitely wasn't up to handling any of this. He also wasn't operating at a level where well-thought-out plans were happening, so he went with gut instinct, stopping Castiel's embarrassing declaration with the only tool that came to mind. He kissed him, firmly and effectively.

And then he pulled away, turned, and ran. 

He had gone about four steps when clarity hit him.  _ Oh, shit. Oh, fucking shit. _ He'd managed to thoroughly rile up an alpha, had then kissed him, and was now practically following the textbook instructions on provoking the "chase" instinct. Not only that, but he'd provoked an alpha who was a  _ trained runner. _ When he heard the footsteps pounding behind him, he wasn't shocked at all.

_ Not his fault, _ he told himself.  _ Whatever happens here, he's going to regret, but he can't help it. I did this, and this isn't really him. _ Dean made it another few yards before he felt hands gripping his shoulders, spinning him helplessly and shoving his back against a tree. He closed his eyes, baring his neck in a gesture of submission.

Nothing happened for a long moment. Then a soft hand delicately cupped his cheek. "Dean," Castiel's rough voice said, quietly pleading. "Look at me."

He tried, truly; his lids simply refused to cooperate.  "I can't," he finally whispered.

"Why can't you?" The hand holding his cheek was so careful, the thumb barely touching his skin as it moved against his cheekbone in a feather-light caress.

"Scared." His voice was almost inaudible; his lungs didn't want to provide the necessary air to make sound.

"Dean," Castiel sighed, achingly sad. "I promise, you have absolutely nothing to fear from me. I should never have allowed myself to get agitated like that. You told me to stop, and it was reprehensible for me to ignore that, not to mention implying that you couldn't take care of yourself. And now I've made you afraid of me, which is the last thing I ever wanted to do." He sounded close to tears, and Dean felt the hand tremble. A moment later, it was gone, and he felt unbearably cold without it. He whimpered, then felt mortified at the sound.

"Wait," he forced himself to say firmly. If Castiel walked away from here believing that Dean was afraid of him, it would be the worst thing Dean had ever done. "It's not that. It's not…I'm not afraid of  _ you. _ " He lifted his hands to his own face, scrubbing roughly with his palms.

"Then…what?" That gravelly voice still sounded broken. With huge effort, Dean took a breath and opened his eyelids, making himself look Castiel clearly in the eyes. He was slumped, a look of dejection and guilt painted on his face. 

"I'm afraid…" Dean sighed, not able to maintain the eye contact while he bared his feelings. "I'm afraid that I'm not what you think I am, and that I'm weak enough to keep letting you think it anyway. And one day you're gonna realize that, and you'll either walk away from me completely, or you'll stay because you're too  _ good _ to do that, even if it's what you really want, what would make you happy. And I'm such a coward that I'd let you do that, too."

He couldn't look up and face Cas's eyes, but he felt them studying him. Sounding so confused, but not backing down, he asked, "And what do you think that I believe you are?" 

It was the judgment Dean felt in his bones, that he levied against himself every day. "Enough," he said, not having to think about it at all.

"Such a subjective measure," Castiel said, shaking his head. "The interesting thing about it: it really depends on the person doing the measuring. But unless you know the rest of it, the end goal, it's absolutely meaningless. And you don't get to decide that for me." He shrugged. "Nor I for you, I suppose. But you did kiss me."

Dean nodded, smiling wistfully. "Yeah."

"What if I told you that I don't need or want you to be any more than the person you are right now? What if the happiness I feel just from being with you, talking with you, and looking at you is…enough?"

Throat dry, Dean swallowed hard. "I think I'd like to believe that. It's hard, though."

Cas stepped nearer again. In an earnest voice, though still hesitant, he murmured, "Would you let me try to convince you?"

"Might take a while," Dean warned. His skin was beginning to tingle, anticipating.

"Then it's a good thing we have time, and I can be very patient." Cas came as close as he could then, putting his hands on either side of Dean's head and cradling it. "You surprised me before. Do you think we could try it again, make it a little less one-sided?" Huffing a laugh, Dean nodded, and Cas finally lowered his lips to Dean's.

For a patient man, Castiel got demanding in a hurry. Fortunately, Dean was quick to get on board with the new plan. Within moments, he'd willingly opened his mouth at Cas's urging, and the kiss became a desperate slide of tongues and slick lips. Hands that had gently stroked jawlines were now frantically pulling and grasping; Cas pushed closer to Dean, chest to chest, and Dean's back scraped against the jagged bark of the tree, but he couldn't find it in himself to care one bit. 

When Cas slipped a hand up the back of Dean's neck to wind his fingers into his hair and tug, Dean groaned deeply; the noise pulled a full-body shudder from Cas, whose hips rocked forward uncontrollably into Dean's. The feel of the rock-hard cock against his own, not even masked a little by the thin nylon of their running shorts, was almost too much, and Dean was suddenly aware that he was positively soaking through the back of his shorts with the slick pulsing from his hole. The scent of Castiel's arousal was heady, making him feel nearly intoxicated.

"Tell me you drove here," he managed to moan into Castiel's ear. There was no earthly way he was going to make it home walking in his current state. 

Breathing as though he'd been sprinting, Cas nipped wetly at his jawline a final time before letting his forehead drop to Dean's shoulder. "That would have been nice, wouldn't it?" They clung to each other, fighting to catch their breaths and regain composure.

"I don't suppose…back in the woods, somewhere?" Dean looked over his shoulder optimistically, considering.

"No," Cas said, shaking his head firmly. "I said I was going to convince you of how important you were, and that won't start by me hauling you behind a tree for a quick release."

"I promise, I'm perfect okay with that," Dean said hurriedly.

"Oh, I'm sure," Cas laughed. "But maybe we should just consider this a taste"—he playfully ran his tongue along Dean's neck—"of things to come." Dean groaned again, and Cas pulled him forward into a tight hug, which he returned. "I want more than just that, Dean. In fact…" He paused, tilting his head in thought. "I'd like to take you out this week. Could we do that?"    

"What, like a date?"

Cas snorted. "Yes, like a date. Like I've been  _ trying _ to do for more than a month, now, if you hadn't kept turning my attempts into friendly hangouts instead." Dean blushed, running a hand through his hair, and Cas chuckled again. 

"Yeah, okay. But in my defense, you never actually  _ said _ they were dates! I have plausible deniability!"

Rolling his eyes, Cas teased, "Better find yourself a good lawyer, with that kind of flimsy excuse."

"Nuh-uh. Already got a good lawyer," Dean said with a grin, throwing an arm around Cas's shoulders. A beat later, he added, "And since I practically raised the kid, he gives me a discount!" The tickling that followed nearly had them sprawled on the ground for very different reasons, but they eventually made it out of the park with only a reasonable amount of grass stains on their clothes and skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. :) (No, it's not done yet.)


	12. Hooking my arms and grabbing my woods

"Dean, how is everything going?"

"My friends were right, I was wrong, splitting a pot of chili  _ was _ code for wanting to fuck me, and now I don't know what to do."

Dr. Bradbury didn't say anything for a long moment, during which Dean juggled the phone to his other ear and stared balefully at the pile of clothes jumbled haphazardly across his bed. He was sorely regretting putting this off until the last minute; most of the stuff Meg and Jo had talked him into buying had still been in shopping bags, tags attached.

"All right, I'm going to need you to back up a little. Apparently, quite a bit has happened since the last time we spoke, when you assured me everything was 'all good' with Castiel, and that you were becoming close friends, which was exactly how you wanted it?"

Dean blew out a breath. "Okay, yeah, maybe that wasn't completely accurate."

"For him or for you?"

"Um. Both?" Backtracking was never fun, and when he had to do it with his therapist, it usually meant also having to discuss the reason behind  _ why _ he'd been less than forthcoming with the truth, but he had bigger issues at the moment.

She sighed exaggeratedly, then said, "Better fill me in, then." After a few stumbling starts, trying to navigate backward through their history to recreate everything more clearly, Dr. Bradbury didn't even try to hide her amusement.

"Well, next time you tell me that your friends are all wrongly in agreement about something, I might just have you call them up and put them on speakerphone for me. Dean, your denial skills are even more phenomenal than I imagined. So what was the tipping point that finally forced you to believe?"

He'd stopped blushing ten minutes before, having hit peak capacity for the act, and after having come clean about so much already, all he could do was grimace when he confessed, "He caught me off guard in a, uh, bad situation, and it sort of…affected him. Like, protective instinct, I guess. Not that he lost control, but we both ended up pretty riled up, and…"

"All right, I don't need the steamy bits," she hastily interrupted. "I don't think I have to say that pheromones and instincts aren't ideal foundations for starting a romantic relationship, but we can address that in a minute. Tell me about the 'bad situation' you so vaguely mentioned, probably hoping I wouldn't ask."

"Caught that, did you," he muttered. Dean steeled himself for the lecture, knowing there was really no way out of this except to outright lie, but that was pretty much the only thing she took more seriously than the prohibition against bashing himself. "It was another alpha. Some douchebag who tried to grab me at the park, and I  _ know _ what you're going to say, but honestly, if you'd have been there, you'd know—there was nothing else I  _ could _ do. So I…I hit him. I'm sorry."

"You're…huh?" She sounded so confused that the "therapist voice" slipped, leaving behind only the baffled young woman. "What…you're sorry? Because…Dean, I'm going to need you to be clear now. You were at the park."

"Yes?"

"And…and you were completely sober, just enjoying the day?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I was running, so it wasn't like a picnic or anything but—"

"Just bear with me," she said briskly, Her tone was firm, impatient. "You were out there for your own business, and this alpha approached you. Did you know him?"

"No, just some random douche," Dean huffed.

"At any point did you express interest, or in any way communicate that it would be acceptable for him to touch you? Mind you, even if you did, that wouldn't obligate you or mean you couldn't change your mind—"

"No! I mean, I know all that, but no, I never came onto him, and I don't think he much cared about that one way or the other, anyway. He just…" Dean breathed deeply, hit with the unwelcome memory of the guy's creepy dry laugh. "I told him to get lost, and he thought it was funny."

"Dean," Dr. Bradbury exhaled. "I think I may have made a gravely mistaken assumption. When we've talked about you getting in fights, did you…Dean, did you think I meant that you should never defend yourself in a physical way? That there was never an excuse, ever, for violence, and that any fighting on your part was therefore always wrong?"

Dean frowned. Well, put like that… "Maybe?" He considered. "If someone had a gun on me or something, I know you wouldn't want me to just let him shoot me if I could help it. But you were pretty clear about finding better methods for other situations, and not throwing the first punch."

She made a high-pitched noise that he couldn't interpret, causing his stomach to squirm a little. Her voice got muffled for a moment, and he wasn't certain, but he could almost swear he heard her mumbling, "Oh, fuck  _ me _ " a few times. Despite his confusion, he felt a little awed; he'd never broken a professional before.

"Okay," she said finally, coming back to the phone and sounding breathless. "So that one's on me, and I owe you a huge apology. I remember counseling you to that effect, but I should have been much, much more clear that I was  _ only _ talking about finding better ways to handle situations in which you are the aggressor, or in which nobody would otherwise be at risk for harm. If you can walk away, or talk your way out of something, that's different from being  _ attacked. _ I'm even more upset because, with all that you've shared and that I know about you and your history, I absolutely should have anticipated this. Are you all right now, physically and emotionally? Let's start there."

Dean's mind was racing. Feeling incredibly stupid and embarrassed, he dropped to the floor, leaning back against the bed, knees bent to his chest. The therapist's dawning epiphany threw him headlong into his own; he was back in the park, hearing the harsh internal words telling him to stand down, and the rough voice he hadn't been able to clearly identify was suddenly as familiar as his own hands. 

"Dean? Dean, are you there?" The doctor's voice was insistent, worried, and Dean shook his head to clear it, fighting his way through clouded memories back to the present so he could respond.

\---

By the time he was getting ready to hang up the phone, feeling raw in a way he hadn't since their earliest and most painful sessions, Dean had almost forgotten why he had called in the first place. "Wait!" he'd exclaimed. "You never said what I'm supposed to do now! Cas is coming over in—" he checked his watch "—forty minutes, and I don't even know what to wear! I don't want to screw this up."  

"I doubt the outfit could do that," she had laughed, "but considering how much harder you've made things by not talking, have you considered trying the opposite of that?" He'd grumbled, she'd reassured, and in the end, she had sent him off with positive thoughts and firm instructions to treat himself gently. "Or let Castiel help with that," she'd suggested, and he could almost see her winking.

Therapy session ended, he frowned at the cell phone screen. Pulling up Cas's number, he texted,  _ Is this date more of a "play with plants" thing or a "eat plants other people grew" one? Gardening gloves or neckties? _

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

**_5:28 PM Closer to the latter, but definitely no neckties. I think we've had enough of greenhouses, though. ;)_ **

He probably should have been more specific, but he also didn't want to sound like he was nervous. Since leaving each other's company after the park, Dean had had plenty of opportunity to remember all the reasons he'd felt conflicted about pursuing a more-than-friends relationship with Cas, and even though he was now finally, definitely on board with at least exploring the idea, he still couldn't stop thinking about all the ways he wasn't prepared.

At ten minutes until six, he was dressed in an assortment of new clothes, and he'd even snapped a quick photo to send to Jo and Meg.  _ There, proof, _ he'd captioned it.

**_Not bad_ ** _ ,  _ came the terse response, which was as close to full approval as he was likely to get from them.

Now he was fidgeting, because even though he was fairly confident that he didn't look like "a lumberjack going to a rock concert," he was undeniably less comfortable than he would have been in his old clothes.  _ Screw-up number one of the night: not having prepared early enough to run this shit through a few wash cycles with fabric softener. _

Dean heard the sound of the now familiar car engine first, but he waited for the knock at the door, chewing at his lower lip. When he opened the door, his first thought was an immediate throwback to their first meeting:  _ Blue. _ The vivid color of his sapphire button-down shirt made his eyes positively glow; Dean couldn't pull his own eyes away from them. They were glittering brightly, not at all subtle in how they were tracing Dean from head to toe. 

"Dean, you look…" Cas's gaze paused hungrily on the snug-fitting dark jeans, definitely more flattering than the old ones that had become his standard gardening uniform. The black dress shirt was open at the collar (no ties, he'd remembered, and Cas's own collarbones were tantalizingly visible over his own open buttons), and even though Dean had expected to get criticism from the girls over the lack of color, black had felt like a safe bet. Castiel apparently had no problems at all with his choice.

"Yeah, you, too," Dean said, self-conscious under the scrutiny. Taking in the rest of his date, he felt his own heart flutter a bit over the informal waistcoat that showed off his physique. He realized he was nervously licking his lips when he noticed Cas following the motion of his tongue with widened eyes.

"I'm…having difficulty remembering what we were supposed to be doing tonight," Cas finally said, voice sounding slightly dazed.

"Something that didn't involve dirt," Dean suggested, beginning to recover his equilibrium a little in the face of how successfully he'd ruffled Cas.

"Right," Cas said, nodding slowly. Then he blinked. "Right! Dinner, yes. I had a place in mind, though it's not the sort of place that needs a reservation, and I do think you'll like it, but if you don't, we can always go somewhere else." He was babbling, and he seemed to realize it, because he stopped and ran a hand over his face. "This is not at all the impression I intended to make."

"Nah, Cas, don't worry about it." Dean was now grinning. "Usually it's me with the missing brain-to-mouth filter, so this is kind of refreshing. Anyway, I think we're pretty well past the point of worrying about first impressions. You already know I like you, right?" He couldn't help blushing as he said it, but it brought an adorably fond smile to Cas's face. "And since I'm pretty sure you like me, too, all that's left is picking through the rest of the stuff we've been trying not to say out loud."

"Thank God," Cas said, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly as Dean grabbed his keys and pulled the door shut behind him. "I was going to get an ulcer if I had bite my tongue one more time when all I really wanted was to tell you how gorgeous your eyes look sparkling in the sun, or how much I want to kiss every one of those perfect freckles—"

"Okay!" Dean felt like his face was on fire, and Castiel just chuckled, holding the passenger door of the car open for him to climb inside.

The restaurant Cas drove to was, surprisingly, not one with which Dean was familiar. The building almost looked like it should have been somebody's house, rather than a business. "As I said, I do think you'll like it," Cas said, a bit hesitantly. "It's not fancy, but everything is made with love. It reminds me of home, or the way I always thought home should have been."

"No big happy Novak family meals?" Dean asked as they parked and walked toward the door. "I remember you mentioning some of your recipes were your father's. He didn't teach you to cook?"

"Not the way you're thinking," Cas replied. "More along the lines of 'Not going to be home tonight, so use the beef, tomatoes, and macaroni for a skillet dish.' Or else I'd watch him throwing stuff together while he was on the phone doing business. Jimmy wouldn't have minded eating cold sandwiches or cereal for every meal, so I took up the slack for him, too."

"Your mom?" 

"Queen of the takeout menus."

Dean snorted a laugh. "My dad, too. Imagine how he felt about mealtimes with a kid like Sam, who was all about the fresh produce. 'Dad, not pizza again! I want broccoli!'"

They were still grinning stupidly while the server was bringing them their drinks and taking their orders. Dean's brow creased a little as he looked over the menu; he realized with a guilty pang that, in the nervousness of the day, he'd had nothing but potato chips and string cheese to eat all day. "I'll, uh, have the house salad, too," he added to the rest of his order.

The server walked away, and Dean noticed that Cas was studying him with his head tilted slightly. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"It's just…Sam said…" Cas pursed his lips, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I don't want you to think that you're a source of gossip or anything such as that, as though I've been prying into your life behind your back. It's just that, after I met you, I realized how little I actually knew—about Sam, that is, and his family—well, you. So we've been talking, and sometimes he tells me things that I remember, and I guess I'm just recalling how he said that you, um, would probably prefer to starve to death rather than eat a salad."

Dean couldn't even bother being grouchy about Sam possibly making fun of him behind his back, since he was too busy trying not to laugh at how guilty Cas looked. "Dude! Do not worry, please. I honestly don't care if you ask Sam my favorite foods or whatever. He doesn't know everything, though. I can eat a salad. I mean, I  _ don't  _ very often, but, you know." He shrugged. The server chose that moment to show up with a plate of greens for Dean, and he looked at it, trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

Castiel's lips twitched. "Yes, I can see."

Sighing, Dean reached for his fork and stabbed a leaf. "Look, here's the thing. I'm trying to eat better lately, and it's mostly baby steps, but something small every day adds up. I'm not gonna go crazy, give up meat and start skipping dessert. But…salad. Probably not going to kill me, right?"

"Unlikely," Cas agreed, amused. "Is the diet improvement related to the running, by chance?"

Dean used the act of chewing to prepare his answer. "Um, sort of." He hadn't had any intention of going down this avenue of discussion, but now that he was here, and Cas was looking at him with such warmth and affection, he felt like he could actually talk to him about anything, without fear of being teased or judged. "They both came from the same idea, anyway. Making gro— I mean, making  _ good _ choices," he corrected, trying to save at least a little dignity.

"Hmmm," Cas said, resting his chin on his hand. "Diet, exercise…dental work, I assume," he said, smirking at Dean's dramatic shudder. "Is this a relatively new mission? How long have you been at it?"

Now, Dean was not about to confess that their first meeting had been the impetus for the plan. Instead, he decided to tell half the truth. "After that fight at Ellen's. Sort of a 'come to Jesus' moment, I guess." The earlier discussion with Dr. Bradbury floated back across his mind, ruining any chance he might have had at enjoying the salad; he put his fork down and pushed the plate away slightly.

Cas's expression had gone grim. "I remember the discussion," he said. "To my recollection, there was a great deal of misplaced levity and excuse-making. I did my best to remain polite, since I had only just met you, but it was difficult."

Dean fidgeted, curling inward a little. "I know. Look, it's something I'm working on, but—"

"Dean." Shock suddenly flashing in his eyes, Castiel sat up rigidly. "You don't think I was upset with  _ you, _ do you?" When Dean didn't immediately respond, Cas leaned forward across the table, almost vibrating with fierce determination. "I was  _ livid _ that anyone could dare lay a hand on you, and that those around you would demand  _ your _ apologies or imply that you somehow deserved it."

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, broken only by the sound of the server clearing her throat. She deposited their plates on the table, gathering up the unwanted salad, and escaped the tense atmosphere as quickly as she could. Dean sat back against his seat and released the breath he realized he'd been holding.

"You know, it's actually funny," he said, poking at his fries. "Before this afternoon, I don't know what I'd have done with that. I mean, you saw me at the park. I did fight back against that alpha, and it seriously fucked with my head, because, yeah, you could say I've got some issues with how and when to stand up for myself. Not always clear-cut in here," he said, tapping his forehead.

"And what happened this afternoon?" Cas prompted him gently, full of quiet concern.

Dean chuckled humorlessly, gazing fixedly at his plate. "Just a chat with my…my therapist." He risked a glance upward, checking for a reaction. Sam was the only person aware that he went to a therapist; he wasn't ashamed of it, but he didn't trust other people to understand. Cas's expression didn't change at all. "She was sort of talking me through some of it, and maybe…maybe now that we know  _ why _ I'm screwed up about this, we can unscrew me some." 

Castiel seemed to understand that Dean couldn't talk about this any more clearly right now; it was too fresh, too raw. "If it helps, I think we're all screwed up in one way or another," he said. "Some of us more visibly than others, perhaps, and some of us are just better at hiding it and ignoring it. In case you were worried, you should know that I spent most of my college years taking advantage of the generous student counseling services."

Relief filled Dean, renewing his appetite. He grabbed his burger, taking a huge bite. Cas followed the motion of his throat muscles as he swallowed, and Dean couldn't resist making his sounds of pleasure perhaps a little more uninhibited than they might have been. Castiel swallowed hard and grabbed swiftly for his own food; Dean felt a rush of satisfaction. 

Their meals were delicious, just as Cas had promised, and Dean was wondering about dessert, but Cas stopped him. "Not here," he said. "I have other plans." With a wink, he grabbed for the check, leaving Dean full of questions.

"Are we…heading home?" he asked as the door closed behind them. He was definitely not opposed to the idea of a strategic retreat to more private quarters, but it seemed a bit of an abrupt departure. After the sexual tension at the beginning of their night, outside of a few suggestive remarks and meaningful looks, the two of them truly had spent most of their time breaking down walls and simply getting to know each other in more open ways.

"The night is young, don't you think?" Cas said, gesturing widely with his arm. "Frankly, Dean, you make me  _ feel _ young, or at least as young as I am, much more than I do sitting around the office staring at briefs all day. It's the whole balance thing, remember? Tonight, salads aside, we should fight the good fight against stodgy 'maturity.' Do you trust me?"

There wasn't even a question.

\---

With any other date, the suggestion of a wild, reason-free night would likely have involved a loud bar and copious alcoholic beverages. While beer did make an appearance at their next stop, it was far from the main event, mostly because it was tricky to putt while intoxicated.

"I've seen your formidable pinball skills," Cas had said challengingly, parking outside the Goblin Golf and Arcade complex. "How are you with other kinds of balls?" Dean waggled his eyebrows lasciviously at the innuendo, and they snickered as they grabbed each other's hands and headed for the gate.

He'd considered hustling Cas, tanking the first half of the miniature golf course intentionally and then destroying him on the second, but the look in Castiel's eye when he sank the first ball in one shot told Dean that he'd need to be on his game the whole time. By hole three, the trash-talking had escalated to ridiculous levels, though they kept it playful rather than mean. Apparently, the same competitive compulsion that had led Castiel to become a collector of pinball machines had also included a childhood career goal of becoming a professional miniature golfer.

"Jimmy and I were actually youth members of the USPMGA—the ProMiniGolf Association—at one point,"  he confessed. "It's not exactly a rigorous entry bar; just pay your membership fee every year, agree to follow the rules. Not quite like the real PGA. Still, we kept track of our rankings and took it  _ very  _ seriously."

"Oh, yeah? What color jacket do you get for winning their big tournament?" Dean joked, tapping his ball down a twisty hill toward a small forest of eerily glowing tombstones. It rebounded three times before sinking into the cup.

Castiel graciously inclined his head with a smirk, then lined up his own putt. "You laugh, but there actually is a 'mini master's tour,' using a few courses in Wisconsin and Illinois, and the winner gets an 'Ugly Jacket.'" Dean's cackle was loud, but didn't prevent the hole-in-one.

"Glad I didn't wager anything on the game," Dean remarked. "Professional mini-golfer—that's the sort of thing you open with, man. I had no idea I was playing so far out of my league." 

Castiel stepped close to him, near enough that Dean could feel the warmth of his body through the thin cotton of his shirt. He was suddenly very aware of how Cas had unbuttoned an extra button, the evening humidity raising a sheen of perspiration along his neck, and how he'd opened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves, baring the length of his forearms. Dean could clearly scent the simmering pheromones rising from the exposed pulse points, arousal, and he had to glance around the course at the other players to remind himself that they were in public. "Believe me," Cas said, in a husky growl, "I'm the one who feels completely unworthy at this moment. You have absolutely no idea."

"Th-think I'm getting one," Dean stammered, cocky bravado evaporating. Moments later, the cheerful noise of a family finishing the hole behind them recalled them to what they had been doing, and they stumbled on, a new urgency lending speed to their play.

At the last hole, Cas stood for a moment glaring, an aggravated sigh resounding from his lungs. Dean eyed the hole with sympathetic amusement. "Still a sore spot?" he said, nodding at the ghostly windmill, blades turning slowly with a horrible creaking noise.

"We managed to settle the case two weeks ago," Cas said, shaking his head. "Brought in a sort of 'celebrity mediator,' someone who'd been on a few daytime talk shows discussing legal issues. The complainants seemed to want attention even more than money, so it seemed appropriate, and they wound up being eager to work with us at that point. Well worth the mediator's fee in the end. Now I just feel mocked by the universe, but it'll pass." He smiled wryly.

"Huh. Well, that's not it, then," Dean muttered, crossing the stubborn legal case off the list of things he'd thought could be bothering Sam.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Just…have you noticed anything, um, off with Sam lately? Something bugging him?" So soon after Castiel's reassurances that there had been no discussions behind his back, the question might have been intrusive, but Dean really was beginning to worry.

Cas looked up at the sky, thinking. "No, nothing comes to mind. He's been focused on his cases, conscientious as always. What makes you concerned?" Putting his ball on the tee, he aimed his putt and began nodding slightly to track the rhythm of the blades passing over the tunnel entrance.

Dean shrugged, tapping his club against his toe. "He's just been  _ weird _ recently. I mean, I think there's something going on that he wants to tell me, but he ends up just staring at me with those enormous sad eyes, or going on and on about how talking can make things better. Like, who are you trying to convince, man? Just spill already!" He rolled his eyes, frustration spilling out in the relief of opening up. "Thought maybe it was something at work, but what if he's really sick or something? And it's almost like he's trying to butter me up before he tells me, because he's also being strangely  _ nice _ . Doing favors, actually  _ asking _ me about shit that I know he doesn't give a crap about…it's nuts."

While he was talking, Cas had stood back upright and stepped back from the ball, looking at him thoughtfully. The more he explained, however, the wider Cas's eyes grew, and his cheeks became faintly pink. At first, Dean started to actually panic; had he actually not been worrying enough? Was there something there that was potentially even worse than he had imagined? Then he realized that Castiel was no longer meeting his eyes, and he was fidgeting slightly.

"Um," Cas said finally. "I think there's a possibility that…well, I might know what's going on there. You say he's behaving more solicitously toward you? Attempting to open communication channels, however awkwardly?"

"You mean awkward like this, right now?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Cas, what's wrong with my brother?"

"Nothing," he hastily said. "Or, rather, I should say, there's nothing going on in  _ his _ life that he's struggling to share. Though I should probably reassess that, upon reflection, since apparently Sam's abilities as an intuitive communicator are limited only to his professional activities." He muttered the last thought, grimacing. 

Dean was feeling bewildered, trying not to become aggravated. "I'm going to need you to stop tap-dancing now and just tell me what's going on."

Castiel sighed, looking chagrined. "All right. You remember that I told you how maddened I was about how you were treated following the fight at the bar?" Dean nodded impatiently. "Now, I know I told you that your brother and I do not make a habit of gossiping about you behind your back, and I meant that. On the other hand, I couldn't help feeling appalled that someone who works in the legal profession, who has a responsibility to be fair-minded and considerate, would be so callous and insensitive about the situation. I may have told him that, in so many words."

"May have?" Dean asked suspiciously; Castiel's blush grew. 

"As I said, I was upset. And then, as I got to know you, I became increasingly confounded about what seemed to be almost deliberate indifference on his part toward some very legitimate concerns—well, I don't just mean for you, personally, but for many other people as well, and I find it difficult to fathom how an ordinarily very caring man could be so damn  _ blind _ about things staring him practically in the face, and I suppose that the more we spoke, the more adamant I may have become about his need to get his head out of his metaphorical ass…" He trailed off, covering his face with his palm for a moment. 

"So you told my brother…" Dean was having trouble wrapping his brain around this new revelation.  

"I swear, it wasn't like it sounds. I wasn't trying to interfere, or at least not directly. The only thing I can recall advising him to do that may have been honestly construed that way was to stop talking and just listen for a change. It was meant generally, but in context, I can see how he might have made assumptions." Cas was radiating guilt, and he looked so abjectly ashamed that Dean couldn't get too upset.

"Okay, look. Not going to pretend that wasn't a little out of line, but we can talk about that later. I get where you're coming from, and all the lawyerly 'responsibility to the people' business, well, that's something between you guys. But Sam and me? Dude, that's sort of just how we are. No chick flick, touchy feely moments, you know?"

"No, I don't," Cas argued. "I don't know all the nuances of your relationship, of course, but what I see is somebody who frequently bears far more weight on his shoulders than he should have to, considering that he has people around him who should be, and are, willing to help bear that load. Sam was actually aghast at the thought that he had been turning a blind eye toward the concerns of a loved one; he had  _ no clue _ —"

"Well, yeah, he had no clue! That was sort of the idea!" A cough came from behind them, and they glanced back to see the nervous family, waiting their turn at the hole. Dean gestured toward Cas's ball, and Cas stepped up and putted hastily. The ball obediently rolled forward between the blades, falling into the hole as if it, too, wanted to escape the awkwardness.

"Here's the thing," Dean said, lining up his own putt. "There's a whole big family history mess that we don't talk about, and I can tell you all about it later, over way more alcohol than this, because trust me, I'll need it. Believe me when I say that Sam and I make perfect sense when you have all the pieces to the puzzle, though." He tapped his ball; it made a clanking sound as it rebounded from a windmill blade. "Dammit!" The mother of the family behind them tsked, and he made an apologetic face.

"Dean." Cas stepped close. "I'm sorry. I overstepped, and the fact that my concerns were further twisted into something that caused you alarm doesn't negate my responsibility in causing them in the first place. My only defense is that I find myself unable to stop caring about you. You don't owe me any explanations about anything, and I promise to treat your confidences with greater regard in the future…assuming, of course, that you'll give me that chance?" His eyes were filled with anxious worry, but he kept them locked on Dean's as he spoke.

Perhaps it was the way Cas put the entire decision in Dean's hands, rather than making excuses or posturing or arguing that the whole mess was completely justifiable and in Dean's best interest. He got the feeling he could probably have said, "Screw you both," walked off the course, and Cas would have respected that and let him go. But he didn't  _ want _ that, and just thinking about it made his stomach churn in a way that the misunderstanding itself hadn't.

Instead, therefore, he let himself picture Sam, faced down by a wrathful Castiel, desperately protesting that he didn't know what he'd done wrong. He rethought all the conversations they'd had in the time since then. A snort burst out, and his lips curved up. Cas frowned more deeply, not understanding, and Dean reached out a hand, cupping his jaw.

"So what you're telling me is that my brother's not dying, he just loves me?" Cas nodded slowly, still baffled. "Then I can probably get past the rest," Dean grinned. "Now why don't I just finish up, and we can go back to my place? I might even have pie." The smile that broke over Cas's face could have lit the night, and on his second putt, Dean put the ball in the hole.


	13. Nothing Would Come Between Us (Two Dreamers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were smarter, I'd wait until morning to upload this, give it another proofread with less sleepy eyes. (I'm not that smart.)

It wasn't a long drive back from the mini golf course to Dean's house, but it felt longer than it was. For Dean's part, the decision to move past any irritation or self-consciousness he might have felt over being the subject of discussions carried on behind his back, along with the feeling of relief that he'd finally cracked the mystery of Sam's strange behavior, had him feeling relaxed and pleased. Somehow, a lot of the nervousness Dean had been carrying about the whole Cas situation had vanished, and he wondered whether it had something to do with seeing the man so completely off balance. So often, Dean was the one feeling like he was barely keeping things together, surrounded by other people who appeared to handle life effortlessly, and seeing Cas come apart like that had made him seem…more touchable. Like maybe Dean  _ wouldn't _ have to pretend to be someone else, just to feel like he was worthy of Castiel's time.

And, honestly, Cas had looked sort of adorable, biting his lip and blushing awkwardly. Dean's grin, which hadn't faded a bit, was at this point beginning to make his cheeks ache.

They didn't actually talk much in the car, other than rehashing the game a little, then lightly arguing over the radio dial ("Free jazz may be an acquired taste, Dean, but Ornette Coleman—" "That ain't jazz, that's geese having hate sex!" ), and when they pulled up to the house, Cas hesitated after turning off the engine. 

"C'mon, man," Dean said, swinging his legs out of the car. "I'm not sure how much pie I actually have in there, and if there's only a couple pieces, I can't promise I'll have the strength to leave you any. We never did get dessert, you know."

Cas smiled wryly. "Perish the thought of such neglect," he agreed. "But…this has been a wonderful evening, Dean, and I've very much enjoyed it. Barring certain uncomfortable moments, of course." Dean started to protest, and Cas shook his head, waving a hand. "No, I know, but I  _ will _ feel bad about that, at least a little while longer. What I'm saying now is that I really want to have more dates with you, and I don't want you to feel any sort of pressure for anything except the pleasure of your company."

"Cas," Dean said bracingly, feeling warmed to his core while simultaneously frustrated by Cas's determination to be so damn  _ honorable _ . "It's just pie. And while I'm not gonna deny that my crust alone is enough to knock your pants off, that's only metaphorical." That earned a snort of laughter, and Dean went on. "Anyway, I'm not ready to close the book on tonight yet. Too much energy left, you know?"

"I can certainly agree with that," Cas said. They bumped shoulders on the way to the door, grinning as they did. A thread of Cas's scent wafted toward Dean with the contact, and he smiled at how spicy it had become, clearly telegraphing that despite his assurances, Cas's body, at least, was certainly eager to see where the night might lead. That didn't make Dean nervous, though, as it might have with any other partner; he realized that he honestly trusted Cas to follow his head and not his instincts.

_ Just pie, _ he considered, unlocking the door and flipping on the lights. If Cas wasn't comfortable with anything more right now, then that was fine.  _ Just pie...and maybe a little PG-rated action. Kisses are totally appropriate at the end of dates, right? Pie, and perhaps a little making out.  _ He could almost feel the phantom sensation of tree bark against his back as the memory of the kisses in the park flooded his brain.

Cas was examining the living room with interest. Most of the time they'd spent together had been at Cas's place, Dean suddenly realized. He hadn't really considered that before; maybe the way he'd been trying to keep his personal feelings to himself had translated subconsciously into also guarding his home. The way Castiel's eyes were practically scouring everything in the room made him feel a little self-conscious, but it was only fair, he decided. He'd had plenty of time to grow comfortable in Cas's house.

"I'll grab us the food. You want anything to drink?" he offered, kicking off his shoes in an attempt to signal his brain to relax. 

"Whatever you're getting for yourself will be fine," Cas said, finally turning to face Dean. "You have a lovely home. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but somehow this is absolutely you."

Dean felt himself blush a little bit. "It's small," he said. "Not as fancy as your place."

"My place…" Cas grimaced. "I didn't even really think about it much when I bought it. I fell in love with the possibilities of all that garden space, and I figured I could work around the rest. Mostly what I've done is either ignore it or fill it up, largely with the sorts of things one somehow accumulates without noticing. The previous owners had it decorated and styled with themes and concepts and…other interior design phrases about which I know absolutely nothing." He shook his head ruefully. "If only home decorating was more like landscaping. Unfortunately, it seems to be less…organic."

Putting his hands on his hips, Dean pretended to glare at Cas. "How much of that was all build-up to the horrible pun?"

"Actually, fairly little," Cas said, winking. "I sort of stumbled into it, but there was no way I wasn't going to go for it, once I thought of it."

"Yeah, well, I ought to give you the little piece of pie, just for that." The kitchen of Dean's house was open to the living room, only a half wall with a counter between them; throwing a grin at Cas to let him know he was teasing, Dean headed into the kitchen, grabbed the leftover pie—cherry this time, with a little bourbon added to the filling for depth of flavor—from the fridge, and put it up onto the counter between them. Then he threw open a cupboard, reaching for plates, and felt his hand smack bare shelf. "Oh," he said, chagrined. Opening the dishwasher, he found almost every dish, crowded tightly and still dirty. "I, uh, forgot to start the washer," he muttered, flushing hotly.

"Hmmm," Cas said, leaning over the counter. "Forks?"

"Yeah, those, I've got," Dean said. 

"Then I see no reason to stand on formalities," Cas offered, shrugging. 

Dean stared at him. "Now, see, I have no problem with that. I'm sort of surprised that  _ you _ have no problem. Sam called me a savage just because I didn't see the point of buying both paper towels  _ and  _ napkins."

"Why would you need both? Paper napkins are just smaller, slightly prettier towels, right?"

"See, that's what I said!" Dean huffed, throwing up his hands. 

Lifting the pie plate and the roll of paper towels sitting on the counter, Cas smiled easily. "I'm afraid the attorney's oath doesn't include a commitment to follow the finer points of bourgeois table etiquette. Your brother's issues are personal, not professional."

"Yeah, well, that shit's nature, not nurture, then, because I know I didn't raise him like that," joked Dean. After belatedly starting the washer, he grabbed the forks and joined Cas on the couch in the living room. His initial thought had been to look for a movie they could watch, but when the remote was in his hand, Dean caught himself moving into automatic pilot mode instead.  _ Seven weeks to build a habit, _ he thought, tipping his hat mentally to Dr. Bradbury's prediction skills. "Hey, this is going to sound weird, but would you mind if I put on the news? It's just that it's sort of an evening ritual for me these days. I get the feeling that if I didn't catch at least the weather report, my brain wouldn't know it was time to shut down for the day."

Castiel agreed that they couldn't have that, and they settled into the couch with the pie between them. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the overly perky anchor chirping about statewide tornado drills, punctuated by enthusiastic remarks about the shared dessert. Despite the casualness of the act, or maybe directly because of it, sharing the pie out of the dish struck Dean as positively intimate; he held the plate in his hand and felt the soft click of Castiel's fork against the glass, watched as each bite moved from dish to lips. They sat close from necessity, and he couldn't help but be keenly aware of every swipe of the tongue and ripple of throat muscles as they ate.  _ Just pie, my ass, _ he reflected, attempting to not reflexively mirror every movement.  _ Goddamn foreplay is more accurate. _

"So, you mentioned 'raising' Sam," Cas said, finally breaking the spell. "Now, I may not know exactly how old you are, but either you've got incredible genetics or else that was hopefully just hyperbole. Sam doesn't talk about your parents much at all, but you can't be old enough to have actually reared him on your own."

"Hey, maybe I'm just robbing the cradle with you!" The wisecrack and subsequent chuckle gave Dean a chance to recover from the knee-jerk defensiveness he felt at the mention of his folks. Taking a bite of pie, he considered how candid he could be without completely wrecking the mood. "Dad was around," he finally answered. "Wasn't like we were transient orphans or anything, picking pockets, shining shoes, and telling the neighbors how mommy just went out to the store and would be back any day now."

"That's a rather detailed scenario," Cas broke in, eyebrow lifted.

"Some kids' movie or something." Dean smiled darkly. "Real life features way fewer song and dance numbers. On the other hand, Disney flicks always start with killing the mom, so I guess there's that." Castiel flinched, and Dean instantly regretted the joke. "Crap, pretend I didn't go there, okay? Dammit."

"Dean, I—"

"No, it's fine, seriously. I mean, it's sort of old news. I've had a long time to adjust. Sam doesn't even remember Mom. He was just a baby when she…" He let that sentence die away, starting again. "We had Dad, but Sam never really knew what it was like before. I'm lucky, I guess, because I got a handful of years with her. So don't get all weepy now, because I'm not."

Castiel looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded, eyes flickering with suppressed thoughts. 

"Anyway, Dad worked a lot, and he wasn't really great at the whole touchy-feely domestic thing, but somebody's got to do all that, right? And I think we can all agree that I'm not spectacular, either, but…" Dean sighed. "I remember coming home after school once, and there's little Sammy at the neighbor's place, because kindergarten let out earlier. And we went in the house, and I start trying to throw together something for dinner, because when Dad would get home from work, he wanted food ready. And then I hear this 'thunk,' and I run and find Sammy at the top of the stairs, and the giant laundry basket is dumped all down the steps, because it was way too much for him to try to carry, and all I could think is, 'No way should this be a five-year-old's life.' So I made him go out and play, and I did the laundry. Listening to him laugh, like a kid's supposed to, I just decided then to do everything I could to keep Mom's death from taking away the childhood he deserved to have."

"But what about yours?" Cas looked absolutely pained, and Dean fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I was fine," he insisted. "Although it's possible that the crap household maintenance habits I developed as a kid, trying to do things as fast as possible, might have lingered into my adult life. Still can't be bothered with shit like folding underwear before putting it in the drawer." The joke fell flat this time.

"Sam doesn't even realize, does he?" Castiel asked, understanding dawning. "You never let him know."

"He was five, and the basket was almost bigger than he was. That's the sort of kid he was. You think he'd have just gone along with it if he knew?" Dean snorted. "But I chose that, man. It was worth it."

"And even now…" Cas closed his eyes. "The look on his face when I first asked him if you were all right—I was so appalled when he brushed it off with a laugh and told me how you were  _ always _ okay."

"'Cause I am," Dean replied, a practiced smile jumping to his mouth, before it flickered and slid. "As far as he knows. Look, I  _ know. _ You think my shrink didn't call me on this practically from day one? But I've been playing this part for decades now, and the last thing I want to deal with at this point is Sam feeling guilty over it. 'Sides, it's over now. Everybody's all grown up, Sam turned out great, and if I missed out on kid stuff back then, I've more than made up for it by acting like an overgrown child in the meantime." Feeling the argument over that point coming, he purposefully averted it by scooping up a forkful of pie and directing it toward Cas's mouth. Castiel sighed and took the bite, curbing his disagreement, but he slid slightly closer to Dean so that their hips were touching. 

When the last crumbs and traces of filling had been diligently scraped from the dish, Dean gathered their utensils, replacing them with a couple of rocks glasses."Part two of the evening routine," he said, filling his own glass with a couple of fingers from the bottle he'd tapped for making the pie. He held out the bottle to Cas with a questioning eyebrow. "Dunno if you're a bourbon man, but you said whatever I was having."

Cas eyed the label with an amused look. "Am I obligated to enjoy a product with the name Angel's Envy, or did you purchase it for the play on my name?" He ran a finger over the etched wings on the back of the bottle. 

"Obligation might be strong, but it's good whiskey," Dean promised. "I started going for quality over quantity, and I gotta say, I don't think I could ever go back to the rotgut stuff at this point."

"A wise strategy," Cas replied, splashing the liquor into his glass. He gave it an approving sniff before sipping. The warmth of the bourbon burned a slow trail down Dean's throat, and he wondered whether it was possible to be more contented than he was in that moment. As he sank deeper into the sofa cushions and Castiel curled an arm around his shoulders, tugging him closer and running his hand over Dean's arm, he stopped thinking at all. Cas smelled like every comforting experience he'd ever known, all at once, and he drifted, swept up in it.

\---

Dean hadn't taken into account that a large part of habit building is physical conditioning. He hadn't simply grown accustomed to watching the nightly news with a single glass of good whiskey; his brain had indeed actually come to associate those things with the end of the day, and in combination with the warm fuzzies from his date and the deeply relaxing effect of Castiel's pheromone-laden scent, he didn't stand a chance. One moment, he was listening to the sports anchor (some gangly kid who looked barely old enough to be in college, let alone reporting the news) recapping the baseball standings for the day, and in the next, he was blinking into the darkness, staring at a silent screen.

His hand was bent at an awkward angle under his hip, and he wiggled it, grunting at the pins-and-needles feeling of blood rushing back in. An answering low hum resonated against his cheek, and he startled into full consciousness. Struggling to push himself upright, he realized that he had slipped sideways and had been lying along the sofa, face nestled deep into Castiel's armpit. At some point after he'd nodded off ( _ oh, God, please don't let me have drooled on his shirt _ ), Cas must have switched off the TV, as well as grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, which was now draped over his body. Cas himself had managed to tuck his legs up along the cushions, bracketing Dean on either side, and was flopped against the pillows by the arm of the couch. He was snoring softly, arms wrapped around Dean's torso.

Dean was mortified. He was painfully embarrassed. He was…damn cozy. The little snuffling sounds Cas was making, the warmth radiating from his body, the  _ delicious _ scent of snuggly and content alpha…if Dean hadn't felt like a goddamn idiot for falling asleep on top of the man, he might have been tempted to curl up tighter in the blanket and drop back into blissful sleep.

But he did feel like an idiot, and the abrupt change in emotions was apparently sharp enough to send cues that broke through Castiel's slumber. The feeling of strong arms tightening protectively around Dean came a few heartbeats before the frown that creased his brow and the rumble of his voice, even deeper than its usual gravelly timbre. "Not yet," he growled, eyes still squeezed shut. His fingers fluttered softly on the blanket.

"Not yet…what?" Dean muttered. "Cas, it's—" he squinted at the clock on the cable box "—two in the morning. I fell asleep, I'm sorry, you didn't need to—"    

"Shhhh," Cas interrupted, still refusing to rouse enough to open his eyes. He seemed positively determined to maintain the cuddly status quo, which Dean would have been happy to support if it wasn't glaringly obvious to him now that both of them were likely to wake up stiff-necked and awkwardly rumpled. 

"Ca-aas," he murmured, reaching a hand over his head to brush at the dark strands now falling haphazardly over Cas's forehead. "Hey, sleepy, you don't really want to crash on this couch. C'mon, time to head off in search of an actual bed." Part of him wanted to pout at the idea of uncurling himself from Cas's arms and sending him home for the night, but he tried valiantly to stay focused. "Time to go night-night for real."

"Mmmm, 'kay," Cas sighed. Without letting go of Dean, he levered himself upward (the feel of his abdominal muscles contracting between them was definitely something that would need to be revisited later) and momentarily dropped his forehead onto Dean's shoulder, sighing sleepily. Then he stood—pulling Dean up with him. "Bed," he grumbled, and began to stumble in the direction of the stairs.

"Whoa, hey," Dean said, almost tripping as he was pulled along sideways. "That's not…I mean…" It was becoming apparent that Castiel was not really awake at all. Feeling conflicted, Dean tried to cobble together his sleep-addled reasoning skills. On one hand, this man who was so concerned about not overstepping Dean's boundaries would be horrified at the thought of marching Dean off to a bedroom without explicitly stated consent. On the other hand, there was no way Cas was coherent enough to drive a vehicle, and the thought of him crashing on the way home gave Dean a shudder.

Embarrassment trumped death. He'd just have to work around the impromptu slumber party and deal in the morning with whatever fallout there might be. He debated ensconcing Cas in the bed and then creeping back down to the couch for the rest of the night, but the grip around his chest and arms made him suspect that semiconscious Castiel was going to be stubborn about keeping him captive. (And if Dean felt selfishly pleased about that prospect, nobody needed to know.)

Somehow, amazingly, the two of them managed to navigate the steps without falling and breaking any necks, and Dean resignedly guided them into his bedroom, not even bothering with the lights. He grunted as Cas practically face-planted onto the mattress, only narrowly avoiding being directly in the path of the fall. "Dude," he muttered, wriggling upward to get his head onto a pillow. Cas mumbled something unintelligible and pushed his face into Dean's hip. Huffing with quiet amusement, Dean surrendered, stretching down to snag the afghan at the foot of the bed. "You better not blame any of this on me," he whispered. "Of course, you wouldn't, would you? So you better not blame yourself, either. Maybe I'll come up with something believable, convince you we talked about it before you fell asleep."

He ran a hand softly through Castiel's hair, loving the feel of it slipping through his fingers. Ruefully, he reflected that he'd be a lot more comfortable if he wasn't still fully dressed, particularly in the slightly stiff fabrics of the new outfit, but there was little to be done now. He managed to get the shirt unbuttoned, at least, with only a small noise of complaint from his bed partner when he lifted his back slightly to remove it the rest of the way. He eyed Cas, thinking the waistcoat couldn't possibly be conducive to good rest, but things would be awkward enough without his having stripped the man.

The feel of Cas's hot breath puffing against his side reminded him of something, and he pursed his lips regretfully. "Didn't even get that good night kiss," he said with disappointment. "Oh, well. Maybe it'll be a good morning kiss instead, if you're not too weirded out." Dean's eyes were slipping closed again, and as he was pulled back under, he had a flash of inspiration. He'd get up before Cas and make him some breakfast. That ought to ease things. Bacon made anything better… 

In the end, though, instead of Dean's internal alarm waking him, it was a solid thump on the floor and a startled yelp. His eyes flew open, and he rolled over onto his stomach, gripping the edge of the bed and staring down into wide blue eyes, full of confusion.

"I…" Castiel appeared stunned, mouth opening and closing a few times. "I fell."

"Yep. You did," Dean nodded.

"I was expecting a wall," Cas said, dazed. "My bed is in a corner, but…" He looked around, then down at himself, and finally back at Dean. The sunlight coming through the curtains wasn't too bright yet, but it was enough to show that, as predicted, the smart dress clothes of the night before were now thoroughly disheveled. "I don't remember how…" His eyes landed on Dean's bare shoulders, and his confusion started to tip into visible dismay. 

Trying to head off the freak out before it got started, Dean clambered off the bed to join Cas on the ground. "Pull up, man, don't panic. We zonked out on the couch, remember?" Cas nodded hesitantly, furrowing his brow. "I guess you don't remember me waking up and trying to relocate us, then."

"Not at all," Cas confirmed. "I, er, tend to be a rather heavy sleeper. I required three separate alarm clocks, in various parts of my room, for early classes in college."

"Yeah, I can see that," Dean smirked. "You only seemed to hear the word 'bed,' and you sort of transformed into some sort of zombie cuddle monster, and nothing was going to come between you, this room, and my memory foam." He leaned closer, beaming, and rested a hand on the back of Cas's neck in a manner he hoped would feel reassuring. "And I gotta confess, man. You're sort of irresistible when you're in grumbly teddy bear mode."

Castiel groaned, closing his eyes and covering his face with both hands. "I can't recall any of this. Dean, I feel terrible! Please tell me I didn't do anything…" He couldn't finish his sentence, just shaking his head in dismay.

Dean couldn't help but chuckle. "You were a completely family-friendly bed partner, Cas," he assured him, pulling him into a hug. "I promise, you were a complete gentleman. Well, if gentlemen communicated in grunts and growls." When Cas groaned again, Dean laughed harder. "I mean it! Not even a peck on the cheek!" 

Cas peeked out from between his fingers, frowning. "You're serious?" Dean hummed in affirmation. "Well, now I can't decide what embarrasses me more," he said. "I hijacked your bed without invitation or discussion, but is that worse than letting our date end without doing this?" Cas opened his arms and returned the embrace, then slid a hand up along the back of Dean's head to pull him closer and press their lips together.

It was a much slower, gentler kiss than their first had been, owing to their lingering sleepiness and their awkward positions on the floor. Even so, the warmth and ease between them made it even more satisfying, and Dean found himself being pulled into Castiel's lap, straddling him without a trace of hesitancy. He felt Cas's tongue slide along the seam of his lips, and he couldn't help the elated smile that curved the corners of his mouth as he opened it to allow the kiss to deepen.

The hands that traced the muscles of his naked back were confident, running along his spine, sliding back down to his waist. His own hands were buried in that gorgeous mess of hair, thumbs tracing the stubble at the top of Cas's jaw. The two of them were in no hurry to do anything except be closer, as close as they could be, pressed chest to chest, breathing the same air, feeling as though a single heart was beating for the both of them.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both Dean and Cas were grinning stupidly. "So, did that make up for shortchanging you at the end of our date?" Cas teased playfully.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean returned. "Far as I can tell, the date's still going on. You're still in the same clothes, even." He ran a hand down Cas's chest, toying with the buttons on the waistcoat. 

"Oh, well, in that case," Cas said, "I'm looking forward even more to an even better kiss at the  _ actual _ conclusion of the date." He pressed a light kiss to Dean's jawline.

"Damn straight," agreed Dean. "Now, since I'm pretty sure we've both thoroughly derailed any thoughts of a morning run, how do you feel about pancakes?" Castiel's answering smile was blinding.


	14. My dreamy friend, it’s coffee time (Let’s listen to some jazz and rhyme)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is delayed; my kids were on spring break, which seriosuly impacted writing time. Here it is, though!

"So the shower's across the hall, if you want. I mean, I'm feeling a bit overdressed for breakfast, myself, but I'll probably just throw on some sweats or something. You can...well, I mean, you don't _have_ to take a shower or anything—I'm not saying you _need_ to, but, like, if you want…" Dean knew he was rambling, but he wasn't quite sure how to gracefully segue out of the fuzzy, warm little bubble of happiness they were sharing. Cas was still grinning at him, so he wasn't too embarrassed.

"It's fine, Dean," he said, laughing a little. "I wouldn't be too proud to borrow a pair of those sweats for myself, at least." He glanced down at the tailored outfit from the night before, now hopelessly wrinkled, and grimaced. "It doesn't really count as a 'walk of shame' if you're doing it in your own car and without anybody to see you, I think, and I'm hopelessly lacking in shame, anyway. Even so, sweatpants sound extremely tempting right now."

Nodding in agreement (and allowing himself a surge of heated anticipation at the thought of Cas in _his clothes_ ), Dean stood, offering Cas a hand up, and led him to the closet. The house was old enough that the bedrooms all ran small, and a dresser would have taken up valuable floor space. Dean had opted, therefore, in favor of non-stubbed toes and unbruised hips, adding extra shelves to his closet, instead, for all the stuff that didn't go on hangers. In the moment that his hand moved to flick the switch for the closet light, he suddenly remembered his hurried, anxious preparations for their date. In particular, he recalled how he'd been too stressed to deal with tidying up afterward. "Um," he said, eyes falling on the heap of clothes lying on the closet floor, where he'd swept them from his bed.

Cas, seeing the pile, seemed to know exactly where Dean's mind was heading. "Before you say one word, I want to point out that this is entirely fair play," he said. "If you remember, the first time you came to _my_ house, you stumbled across my own hidden baskets of laundry. I was immensely gratified that you didn't lift an eyebrow over it, and I am perfectly happy now to return the favor."

"Well, you know, I left this here just for that purpose," Dean joked, blush fading but still visible on his cheeks. "Had to make you feel at home, right?"

"Of course!" Cas nodded. "Very thoughtful." He winked, and Dean felt actual flutters in his stomach. Trying not to blush again, he grabbed for the stack of sweatpants on a shelf, pulling down a couple of pairs.

Meanwhile, however, Castiel's eyes had fallen on the pile of clothes on the ground once more. "Dean, are those…" Stooping down, he lifted a shirt sleeve to reveal the tag attached to it. "Are these…all new clothes?" He looked back up at Dean with curiosity and amusement in his eyes.

Dean sighed. "It's possible my friends dragged me out shopping," he confessed. "Something about my wardrobe being a little unpolished." He wasn't going to cop to having asked them for the makeover. That would have been admitting a little too much for now.

"Well, I personally see no issue with your regular clothing, but…" Cas stuck his hand back into the pile, this time hesitating on the lapel of a sportcoat. "Now I almost regret not taking us somewhere requiring formal wear last night. Hmmm." He looked distracted, caught up in his thoughts, until Dean cleared his throat.

"Okay, well, bacon won't cook itself," he pointed out, holding out the sweats. Grabbing a shirt for himself from another stack, he made sure Cas was sorted out before taking himself across the hall to the bathroom. Teeth brushed, clothes changed, cold water splashed liberally into his face, he finally felt clear-headed enough not to burn the shit out of anything, and he headed downstairs to make a Cas-worthy breakfast.

Castiel, meanwhile, had made his own way to the kitchen and was happily watching the coffeemaker hiss and bubble its way to a full pot. "I hope you don't mind," he said. "I'm not sure about your caffeine dependency, but mine is significant."

"Same here," Dean confirmed. "Been drinking it black, by the pot, since junior high." Cas gave him a small frown, but Dean just shrugged. Cas returned to gazing at the pot in pleasant anticipation, and Dean dragged out the frying pan and bacon.

"Might be a little weird, but I like to have the bacon ready before I make anything else," he explained. "Pancakes take longer, but we can snack while they come together." In a few minutes, the kitchen was filled with delicious aromas. Cas filled mugs of coffee for each of them, adding a small splash of milk to his own. Smiling at each other over the rims of the mugs, Dean got so caught up in the feeling of contentment that he almost let the first skillet burn.

When they were finally sitting down to full plates, Dean realized that he hadn't checked his phone since before they'd gone out the night before. It was still sitting with his keys, where he'd tossed them when they'd come in the house, and he saw several missed messages, including a notification that Sam had tagged him in something on Instagram. He scoffed quietly, opening the application that he never used except to occasionally check up on a few classic car restorers.

Sam had posted a photo of the two of them as young kids, driving Matchbox cars on the table. Over the image, a script font read, " _Because I have a brother, I'll always have a friend._ " Dean groaned, shaking his head.

"Everything okay?" Cas asked, fork paused in midair.

"Yeah, just Sammy," Dean replied. He had a sudden wicked thought. Doing a quick image search for pictures of mountains, he chose the first decent-looking candidate and uploaded to his own account with the caption, " _What we do in life echoes in eternity._ " He tagged Sam, smirking to himself.

Cas was looking over his shoulder. "What's that mean?" he said, looking puzzled.

"Not a damn thing. It's a quote from _Gladiator_." Dean tossed the phone down, feeling satisfied. "But Sam'll drive himself crazy trying to read into it." He grinned at the thought.

"Dean," Cas said, expression warring between guilty and amused.

"Nah, it's okay," Dean said. "I'm not upset with him, either—not really. But I reserve the right to mess with him a little before I let him off the hook. Between the gossiping and the dancing around things, he made me worry, so now he gets to worry a little more himself."

Cas shook his head in disappointment, but it was obviously feigned; his lips were twitching at the corners, fighting to stay firm. Turning back to his food, he asked, "Did he know we were going out yesterday?"

Dean felt a bit of his own guilt. "No, I didn't tell him. Haven't really been spending a whole lot of quality conversation time with him lately, what with him being so weird. I mean, I didn't keep it a _secret_. I told other people!"

Cas held up a placating hand. "Don't worry. I actually didn't tell my own brother, either. Different reasons, though, of course. Last time I went on a date, I made the mistake of telling Jimmy about it, and he was like a dog with a bone. It wasn't even anything serious, just a work event for which we were all 'highly encouraged' to bring partners, but Jimmy was asking about it for months after." He sighed. "Jimmy married Amelia fresh out of college, and I suppose he and everyone else thought we'd be as identical in that respect as in everything else."

"Ouch." Dean winced in sympathy.

"Oh, believe me, I'm more irritated by the nosiness and judgment than I am about the substance of their opinions," Cas explained. "My brother, my cousins, my parents…everybody around me has always seemed so focused on the idea of finding a mate, _any_ mate, just so they wouldn't have to be alone. Personally, I never minded the quiet too much." He smiled.

"I know what you mean," Dean agreed enthusiastically. "It's like the whole world can't think about anything else besides finding a pretty face and a nice smell, and you're supposed to forget everything else when that comes along. I'm supposed to just roll over and be a 'good omega,' like the rest of me is…" _Worthless. Trashy. Not good enough. No self-respecting alpha would ever…_ He shook his head, pushing down the insults.

Cas was studying his face thoughtfully, but he simply nodded. "And being a "good alpha" means I'm supposed to bite first and ask questions later, taking the first scent-compatible person I meet and, I don't know, forcing them to change anything that interferes with how I want us to live, or that differs from the sort of mate I deem _appropriate_." He growled a little, scowling at the idea. "Frankly, I'd rather be alone forever than do that."

Dean reached across the table and took Castiel's hand; the tension that had gripped Cas's form evaporated at the touch. "But you'd never," he said gently. Cas hummed, turning their hands and stroking Dean's knuckles with his thumb. Smiling then, Dean added, "I mean, I've seen you get aggressive, so I know it's in there, but otherwise, you're probably the most in-control guy I've ever met."

Cas snorted a laugh. "You should have seen me before," he said. Dean gave him a questioning look, and he sighed before standing up to refill his coffee mug. "Ask me when I graduated from high school."

"When did you—"

"I didn't."

Dean made a face. "Right, because they just let drop-outs be lawyers."

"I didn't say I didn't _finish_ ," Cas pointed out, taking Dean's mug and topping it off without being asked. "I simply never graduated. After my fourth suspension for fighting during my freshman year, my parents assessed the likelihood that I'd be able to get through another three years without more serious consequences coming into play, and they decided to pull me out. I did the rest of my high school education at home and online."

"Really," Dean said slowly, wrestling to mesh the concept of an angry, violent teenager with the man placidly sipping coffee in front of him. The cognitive dissonance was wild.

"Yep," Cas said, popping the 'p' at the end of the word. "Of course, that was its own sort of hell, with my parents breathing down my neck, and Jimmy waffling between enjoying his role as Big Man on Campus and trying to hide his enjoyment because he thought I would be jealous, for some reason." He huffed a dry chuckle. "I ran through the requirements as fast as they allowed me, then got my GED at the first possible opportunity. Of course, since I was only just sixteen then, my parents wouldn't let me flit off to college, so I spent the next year and a half volunteering for every possible world-saving group that would have me, channeling all my aggression in more proactive, slightly less illegal directions."

"Slightly?" It was hard to keep up with all this new information; Dean felt like he was seeing a completely different side to Cas.

"Well," Cas said, with a slow smile. "Let's just say that there are laws, and then there are laws. The attorneys for some of those groups truly earn their fees. Watching them work their magic was probably a big part of why I went into law in the first place."

Dean blew out a breath on a whistle. "James Dean in a suit and tie." He tilted his head, a sudden thought occurring to him. "So back in the woods, when you wanted to chase down that dick alpha…"

"I mean, it's not that I make a habit of that sort of thing," Cas said, wincing a little. "Not anymore. Teenage me had something of an overdeveloped sense of justice and an underdeveloped ability to control it. It was far easier for the school to crack down on the student throwing punches instead of the bully with the better poker face." He sighed.

"Hey, you made the best of it," Dean said. "Pretty impressive if you ask me. I almost went the GED route myself, but I didn't want to drop auto shop. Made Dad mad, but…" He shrugged. "Wasn't like that was unusual."

"He wanted you to drop out?" Cas said, looking baffled.

"He just…" Dean thought hard, searching for a way to explain that wouldn't sound awful. There wasn't one. "He didn't think it was important. He figured I'd end up mated pretty quick, and then it would be up to my mate whether I was allowed to work in the first place."

"One of those, then," Cas said, irritation obvious in his tone and underlying his scent. "I'm glad you didn't listen. You enjoy your work?"

Dean smiled, though his throat felt a little tight. "Very much," he said firmly.

"Then that's what matters."   

When breakfast ended, there was a period of awkwardness, in which neither of them seemed to have a good idea about what to do next, or how to end the "date." For Dean's part, half of his brain felt like it would be perfectly content to have Castiel stay there through lunch, dinner, and after, for as long as he was willing. The other half of him wanted to process, and he knew he couldn't really do that as long as they were sharing the same space. Every time their arms brushed together, or Cas threw him one of those gorgeous smiles, his thoughts fell to pieces—happy, happy pieces.

Finally, Cas glanced at the microwave clock and frowned unhappily. "Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone," he murmured. "Picasso said it, and I should probably tattoo it on myself somewhere. The breakfast was definitely worth the delay, but I'm afraid that I still need to get my run in, or I'll pay for it later." He made no move to get up from his chair, though.

"You training for something?" Dean asked. The thought hadn't occurred to him, since his own race goal was so recent.

"Yes and no," Cas said, wrinkling his nose. "Some of the runners in my group have detailed schedules, with planned workouts and long runs and meticulously tracked mileage, all leading to big goals. I don't have the desire or the discipline to keep that kind of focus. Simpler just to keep a decent routine going, with a reasonable amount of time on my feet, and then jump into any event that looks interesting on a given weekend. Sometimes I end up regretting it, such as when I signed up for a half-marathon the morning of the race without bothering to notice that it was an almost entirely uphill course." He winced, and Dean cackled. "I usually do well enough in my age group, but the primary goal is simply fun. And it calms my brain a bit—makes things less noisy in there."

Dean nodded, having noticed how his own brain felt more relaxed when his feet were doing most of the work. "You know, that morning, back at the park, I never said, but I was, um, checking out the path for a 5K race." Confessing that fact felt brave, and Dean kept his eyes on his hands, toying with the leather bracelet on his wrist. "It's not like a marathon or anything, I mean, but…"

"Dean, that's great!" Cas said. "Is it your first race?" When Dean nodded, still looking down shyly, Cas reached to pat him on the shoulder. "You'll do wonderfully, I'm sure. And I don't want to hear anything about it being 'only' a 5K. Try telling that to the Olympic 5000-meter runners. Tell Kip Lagat he's not doing anything impressive when he's sprinting well over fourteen miles per hour."

"Okay, well, I ain't going to be moving at anything like that speed!" Dean said, tension dissipating. "I just want to make it across the finish line ahead of the walkers and the folks with baby strollers, and hopefully without puking or falling down." He glanced up, hoping Cas wouldn't tease him for his low expectations. Cas was simply regarding him with warm pride.

"Well, I wouldn't underestimate those groups. I know racewalkers who'll finish long courses well ahead of anything I can do, and some of those stroller pushers are skilled runners who are barely slowed at all by pushing. Did you know they make racing strollers? I've thought about getting one for picking up groceries." He put his hand on Dean's shoulder again, this time keeping it there; the warmth and grip sent a little shiver through him. "You should enjoy yourself, Dean. There's nothing like the energy of a race, whether you're first across the line or last. If you want, I could register and run it with you."

Dean scoffed a little. "Please. You're, like, a real runner. I'm just a guy in cheap Nikes, sucking wind and trying not to die."

"You know there's no such thing as a 'fake runner,'" Cas said, tone light. "If you're running, then you're a real runner." Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head, and Cas made a noise of frustration. "Truly, I don't understand how you can be so confident in some areas, then think so little of yourself in others. If you've really only been running since just after we met, then being ready after only a couple of months to run an official race is something in which you should take pride. Your brother would certainly be proud of you."

"Little kids can do it," Dean muttered. "I've seen pictures. And we're not telling Sam, or anybody else."

"Why on earth not? He'd be thrilled to cheer for you!" He sounded so confused, unable to understand Dean's insecurity over the matter.

"Because he'd be so _supportive_ ," Dean tried to explain, and Cas looked even more lost. Trying again, he said, "He'd be all 'Way to go, Dean! Good for you!' and it would feel like how parents talk to the kid who brought home a freaking scribble drawing. And it would be even worse if it _did_ go sideways, because he'd still paste on that smile and say, 'Good try!' even if I tripped on my own laces, and…I'd just rather tell him after. Or not at all, if it's bad."

Cas's gaze was contemplative as he looked at Dean for a moment, and then he leaned forward and brushed a gentle kiss against Dean's lips. "Then I feel honored that you told me," he said simply. "And I will be even more honored to either run with you or to wait for you at the finish line." _Will be, not would be._ It wasn't even a question in his mind, and Dean was surprised at how relieving it felt to have the "if" taken out of the equation.

"Maybe…maybe you could just be there," he said hesitantly. "I'd rather not feel like you're having to slow yourself way down just so I can keep up."

"I think you might be making an assumption about my running speed when I'm not deliberately pushing it, but that's fine," Cas replied, the warmth in his tone almost unbearably sincere. "It'll be a privilege."

And what could Dean possibly do with that but wrap his own hand around the back of Castiel's neck and pull him in for another kiss?

This kiss was much more intense from the start, and Cas responded to it just as eagerly, slipping his arms fully around Dean's shoulders to drag him closer. They were still sitting in the kitchen, the table between them, and it only took a few seconds for _that_ to get frustrating. Before Dean could say a word, though, Cas, who'd been leaning forward on the edge of his seat, growled and lurched off his chair, pausing in the kiss but not relinquishing his embrace, and shuffled himself around the table to straddle Dean's lap. The gasp of surprise Dean made was swallowed up as Cas then promptly renewed his attack on Dean's lips, hotter and fiercer by the moment.

A groan sounded loudly in his ears. Dean prayed it had come from either himself or Cas, and not his cheap kitchen chair. A moment later, as one of Cas's hands made its way between their torsos and slipped up under the hem of his tee, and he decided that he didn't care.

"Dean," Cas rumbled against his jaw, and a full-body tremor wracked Dean's body. "I…I can't…"

"Sure, you can," Dean protested, closer to a whimper than he would have liked or admitted. He realized he was unconsciously rolling his his upwards slightly, subtly rocking against Cas, and he regretted not a single motion of it. Now that he was aware, he slid both hands down to Cas's hips, pulling him down more firmly into his lap. Cas made a sound that was positively indecent at the increased friction.

"This…I meant…Dean!" Whatever deep thoughts Cas had been attempting to express, it was apparent that grammar and sentence structure capabilities were currently offline. Fortunately for Dean, it seemed that all other systems were fully ready to go, and he quickly found himself at the mercy of increasingly frenzied hands and mouth. Teeth dragged down the side of his throat, nipping and sucking and hopefully leaving a trail of marks Dean would later admire; fingers slipped into the back of his sweatpants, grabbing at his cheeks with desperation. He was being consumed, lit on fire from the inside out, and he thrust hard against Cas, throwing back his head on an inarticulate cry.

And then he was coming, hard, soaking the fabric of his pants as he shuddered in Castiel's arms. Cas moaned something that could have been his name, given a great deal of interpretive latitude, and collapsed forward against Dean's chest, rutting his way through his own orgasm as his hands spasmed and gripped. They trembled together through the aftershocks, Cas's lips wet against Dean's neck as they panted.

The groan Dean had heard before came back, louder in the silence. It was definitely the chair. Cas lifted his head and squinted at him, eyes slightly glazed.

"I will have you know that I intended to be a gentleman for this date," he said, somewhat more hoarse than he had been.

"It's okay," Dean mumbled, too tired for a full grin but too satisfied to be anything but smug. "You changed clothes, so that date's over. This is a different date altogether."

"And I suppose that since we'll now have to change clothes again, we're about to be on our third date?"

"Hey, I don't make the rules," Dean said with a shrug and a wink.

Cas bent forward and kissed him again. "Mmmmm, I'm skeptical, but I suppose I have no choice. Big one for following rules, after all."

Dean closed his eyes and ran a hand through Cas's thoroughly rumpled hair. "Then you'll love this next one. It involves warm water and bubbles."

The sound of appreciation rumbling against his chest was as much vibration as it was noise. "I do intend to get out there and run at some point," Cas insisted halfheartedly. "You won't trap me with your seductive wiles and your…bubbles."

 _Creak-groan._ There was a distinct shiver beneath Dean. He froze. Cas slowly lifted his head again, eyes wide.

"Okay, very carefully, put your weight back on your feet," Dean whispered.

"I don't think the chair can hear you," Cas whispered back. He slowly transferred his weight off of Dean's lap, standing astride his legs as he rose. Then, creeping backward, he held out a hand to Dean, who took it and gripped as he subtly tested his own movement. The seat gave an ominous wiggle, and Cas yanked hard. Dean hit his feet just as the back legs of the chair gave way; it collapsed into pieces with a clatter.

For a moment, they stared at each other in disbelief. Then the endorphins of the whole morning hit them both hard, and they burst into howls of mirth, clinging to each other as they laughed until they were nearly crying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once had a chair collapse under me while I was standing on it. Goodwill chairs are unpredictable like that.


	15. Sick of Layin' Down Alone (Fever)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, much delayed, what with my Dean-Cas-Jimmy Big Bang (just posted a few days ago - go read it!), my kids' spring break, and my husband heading off on a business trip. But I'm back now! 
> 
> I was conflicted about this, but I wrote myself into a corner back in chapter one with the ABO cycle details, and I realized I needed to handle this part of things sooner than the parties involved would have liked. But isn't that just life?

Watching peppers grow was both fascinating and frustrating, Dean decided.

On one hand, it really didn't take long at all for the bushes to shoot gratifyingly upward, filling out with branches and branches of lush greenery. Or maybe that was all down to Cas's magic, since that certainly hadn't been Dean's experience with his earlier pepper-growing attempt. Then, practically between one breath and the next, the branches were suddenly dripping with blossoms, each one promising fruit; bees, drawn in by the sheer volume of flowers, hovered almost constantly over the garden.

On the other hand, pepper plants seemed to be the botanical manifestation of the adage about the watched pot refusing to come to a boil. The anticipation was killing Dean, but now that harvest seemed imminent, it felt like the plants were teasing him, refusing to develop past the point of tiny green nubs of proto-peppers. Patience had been easier to come by when the plants had been tiny seedlings; now that the goal was within sight, Dean felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, watching the clock tick down minutes that lasted hours.

There were also similarities that could be drawn between this and his relationship with Castiel, though the wait there was even more delicious than the one for the chiles.

That morning…it was so perfect, Dean couldn't stop playing it back in his memory. Leaving behind the broken chair, he and Cas had cleaned up in the shower, still giddy with laughter and unadulterated happiness over everything. It had never been like this for Dean; even when he had been in relationships he'd considered pretty good, there had always been a wall of—formality, perhaps? There was always a need to keep up appearances, to wear his "smooth and sexy" persona, to never slip and and show his dorky side. On the flip side, with the occasional friends-with-benefits he'd enjoyed in the past, the appeal had been in the fun far more than in any attraction or chemistry. With Cas, though, he had both. There was laughter, and there was desire, and that the feelings were requited with equal intensity made his head spin. Dean had been with partners he'd liked and with partners he'd lov—felt something maybe more, but finding somebody he both liked and could maybe, sort of, begin to see himself actually falling in—

Boy, the ground around the pepper plants was thirsty today.

So everything was fantastic with Cas, and if Dean was feeling a touch frustrated, it was only in the most tantalizing sort of way. He knew the temporary holding pattern was rooted in busy schedules and lack of opportunity, not any sort of reluctance from either of them. The most immediate proof of that was in how, instead of waving and grinning at Cas through his kitchen window while Dean watered the plants, he currently found himself working the garden hose with a contented alpha draped over his back, nose buried firmly against the side of his neck.

"You're going to be late for work," he chuckled, noting that Cas was still in his sleep pants. He'd dropped by on his way to the garage, anticipating a full schedule of vehicle repairs that would probably prevent him from leaving for lunch, and he'd expected to find Cas all suited up and on his way to his own office.

"Tired," Cas mumbled against his skin. "Didn't sleep well. It's not fair—I can't even remember much about sleeping in your bed with you, but I know I haven't slept that well in a long time, and now that my brain knows what it was missing, it won't settle for less." He yawned widely.

"Guess we'll have to have the next sleepover at your place then," Dean suggested, floating on the warm feelings of Cas's words. "Make your bed smell like mine, because I have to tell you, I'm still enjoying it." It was true; burying his face in the blankets he'd wrapped around Cas's shoulders had been providing him with some grade-A rest for the past few days.

Cas hummed in drowsy pleasure at the thought, running his hand lazily over Dean's chest without lifting his head or opening his eyes. His fingers caught on the rough fabric of the work coveralls Dean was wearing unzipped over his clothes, and he traced the embroidered logo before slipping his hand inside, between the twill and the thinner cotton of his T-shirt. "Smell good," he sighed. "Like it when you smell like your work."

"That's the uniform, not me," Dean joked, turning off the sprayer and gathering the length of hose in his hands as he turned to walk back toward the porch. "Other than the stains, the whole reason you wear the overalls is because motor oil sinks into everything and you'll never wash the smell out, no matter how much you try."

"No, not just that," Cas protested, shuffling behind Dean. His clinginess made it harder to walk, but Dean wasn't complaining at all. "You smell like determination and pride. 'S'good."

"Yeah? And what does pride smell like, anyway?" Sleepy Castiel was adorable, Dean thought for the hundredth time.

"Like…motor oil. But sexy motor oil." He finally lifted his head and squinted at Dean's face thoughtfully.

"Uh-huh," Dean said, pursing his lips to keep from laughing. "Remind me not to let you pick out my cologne, like, ever." He finished winding the hose and dropped it on top of the deck box, then turned to pull Cas into a firm hug. "But thanks, I think."

Cas had replanted his face into the crook of Dean's neck and was almost purring in satisfaction. It was more than a little flattering, Dean considered; now that the two of them had started down the road to greater intimacy, the alpha seemed extremely disinclined to restrain himself when it came to this sort of thing. It was as though a switch had flipped, and with consent having been given, Cas couldn't resist indulging at every opportunity.

It wasn't until he was in his car and on his way to work, nearly preening over it, that another thought occurred to Dean, prompted by the ping of his cell phone notifying him of yet another "thoughtful" message from Sam. The text was some Hallmark-vague message about being there for him when he was at his lowest, and Dean suddenly flashed to the last time he'd actually needed Sam's help like that, and then suddenly he was flipping through his mental calendar and realizing that with everything else happening in his life, he'd completely forgotten that certain biological considerations were about to require attention.

Shit.

Pulling into the lot behind the garage, he texted Cas. _Hey, gonna need a rain check on this weekend, probably._ He scowled in disappointment; besides missing the chance to reconnect physically, he was also ticked at the thought of missing out on going to the comedy club they'd discussed visiting.

**_8:58 AM Is everything all right?_ **

Dean ran a hand over his face, grimacing. Part of his brain was urging him to keep the date, arguing that one of the biggest perks of having a boyfriend was not having to go through heats by himself. Cas would surely be willing to help him out if he asked. In fact, it was sort of a surprise to himself that he hadn't immediately done just that. The weird discomfort in his stomach at the thought, though, made him feel reluctant. Sex was one thing, but heat sex…without any sort of suppressants in his system, he was nowhere close to rational at the peak of his heats, and he wasn't sure he was ready for Cas to see him like that. Also, as much as he wanted Cas in every imaginable way at the point, the idea of having their first full-on, no holds barred, "Gimme all you got" good times be about anything than the two of them wanting to give each other pleasure? It hurt. Cas "helping him out" like it was a favor or a duty (no matter how enjoyable) was the last thing he wanted.

Was Cas going to be hurt if he thought it was about Dean not trusting him? Cas wasn't the kind of guy to get all overbearing and insist on being involved, but he might feel disappointed anyway, emotionally. Dean thought hard. He wasn't going to lie, and being evasive and trying to avoid details would wind up looking suspicious. He'd have to go on faith that Cas would understand. Maybe seeing his reaction to the situation would be for the best, anyway.

 _Just lost track of time and forgot my heat,_ he texted, then held his breath waiting.

 ** _9:04 AM_** **_Well, that explains some things._**   ** _I'll take care of the peppers. Let me know if you need anything else. I can drop some groceries at your house if you need them!_**

It was the weirdest combination of relief and disappointment Dean had ever felt. Castiel was perfect; he really was! But…well, didn't he _want_ to be with Dean for this? It was almost too casual a response, even if the words were Dean had been hoping to hear.

 _Yeah, I'll probably be okay. I mean, miserable, but it is what it is._ He couldn't resist the slight pout that was probably obvious in his message. Then he felt guilty for being passive-aggressive, and he turned off his phone before he could get any response. He knew he was being irrational and ridiculous, but, just for the moment, he didn't feel like being grown-up about anything. Sulking felt more appealing, though he'd have punched anybody who told him that was what he was doing.

The garage was as busy as he had predicted, with plenty of people doing pre-vacation vehicle maintenance, and keeping his head buried under car hoods provided a perfect excuse for avoiding conversations with anybody. By the time he left in the evening, he was sore from head to toe, and he had a number of new bruises and scrapes from being too stubborn to ask for assistance when he could have used it.

Earlier, he'd been thinking about running to the grocery store after work, so he could stock up on the sort of low-prep foods that were all he'd be able to handle in a few days, but now he was too tired to consider it. Too tired for the bar, too, which was probably for the best. He huffed a laugh, picturing himself smiling smugly and taking credit for exercising "self-control" when he talked to Dr. Bradbury next week. He drove straight home, promising himself beer and an early bedtime for a change.

That plan was rudely derailed when he caught sight of Sam's Prius sitting in front of his house. Dean pulled into his driveway on a groan, watching a determined-faced Sam climb out of the car as he did. _Oh, this is the last thing I need right now,_ he thought to himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, then threw open his door and hauled himself out.

"Hey, Dean! How's it going?" Sam said brightly, false cheer barely masking the tension in his voice. If Dean looked hard enough, he thought he might be able to see his brother's eye twitching. Perhaps, he thought in retrospect, it had been a poor decision to mess with Sam; now he'd have to defuse him or watch him explode.

"Not a great time, actually," Dean replied wearily. "Might have to call off work tomorrow, even—heat's coming, I can feel it." It wasn't a lie; now that he took time to consider, the exhaustion in his bones was more than could readily be blamed on work. He hoped the awkwardness of coming right out and saying so would send Sam running, or at least get this over with fast.

"Yeah, I figured," Sam said, and of _course_ he would know Dean's schedule better than Dean himself did. He was probably here to lay down the law, make sure Dean wasn't going to be his typical idiot self and make things harder on everybody around him, the way he always did.

"I'm probably gonna crash early," Dean muttered, slouching and leaning against the closed car door, eyes on the ground. "You don't have to worry about watching me. Not gonna go out or get drunk or pull any other dumb stunts. It's fine."

"Dean, that…that's not why I'm here," Sam stuttered, sounding stricken. "I was _worried._ I've _been_ worried, and then I didn't hear from you today, and Cas hasn't been talking to me, either, or at least not about…well, anyway, and then he came in looking pretty upset today, and…I just needed to make sure you were okay!"

Dean had lifted his gaze to his brother partway through the burst of stumbling word vomit, and by the end of it, his own mouth was hanging open. "Uh," he said, unsure how to respond, particularly with the way Sam now looked moments away from full-on _tears._ "I'm…fine?" Then his brain caught up a little further, and he frowned. "Wait, what's wrong with Cas?"

"See, I don't know! He wouldn't say, which made me wonder why, and then I thought maybe it was because there was something going on with _you_ —that you guys got into it over something, or else he was worrying about you, but then I didn't know _why_ he would be worrying, and it's not like he'd _tell_ me." Sam waved his hands in the air as he talked, obviously completely done with pretending to be composed. He'd also apparently forgotten, or decided to dispense with, any sort of pretense that he and Cas hadn't ever talked about Dean.

"Well, I'm not sure what you're getting at, dude. Why would your coworker be your go-to source for details about _my_ life in the first place?" Dean asked, letting an edge creep into his tone. Just because he'd decided not to be offended by the gossip didn't mean Sam got to be off the hook entirely, and he was too irritable to find much patience.

"Dean, can we not play games?" Sam groaned, running his hands through his hair. "Because I have been _trying_ to talk to you. I've tried for weeks! And clearly I'm just the worst brother ever, because even though I thought we were really close and…and sharing, and connected, I've apparently been completely oblivious about…about _everything!"_ He was almost shouting, and Dean hastily glanced at his neighbors' houses to make sure nobody was watching through their windows.

"Okay, I think we need to take this inside," he said placatingly. "I think we both need a drink to handle this." Sam mumbled an weak affirmative reply, and Dean patted him gently on the arm as he passed on his way to the door.

Once they were settled on the couch and had beer bottles in hand, Dean stretched and breathed deeply, trying for calm. "All right. So, back it up. I already talked to Cas, and he told me that he had given you some shit over how you and I relate to each other."

"No, Dean, he's right!" Sam argued. "I've been terrible! What kind of person sees his big brother get attacked and then _blames_ him for it? I mean, I _know_ the kind of crap omegas have to handle, and I never thought I was the sort of person who would just take all that for granted, like it was acceptable, like it was their _fault!_ Like it was _your_ fault!"

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, it wasn't like I was looking for sympathy," he grumbled.

"Not sympathy, but how about, I don't know, support?" Sam rolled his eyes. "I showed more support for Ellen than I did for you last time. And that was just the one incident! How many times have I talked down to you, or patronized you, or just behaved like a…a spoiled brat because I felt _inconvenienced_ by things that were real crises for you?"

"C'mon, it's not that bad," Dean protested, picking nervously at the label on his beer. This was exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid, what he told Cas he didn't want to have happen. Letting Sam live in blissful ignorance was preferable to working him through the emotional fallout. "Cas even said he probably made it sound worse than it was, because he was upset."

"And he should have been!" Sam retaliated furiously. "Somebody needed to be upset on your behalf! It should have been me." He slumped against the couch, cheeks mottled and flushed red.

"You should have been upset with you?" Dean couldn't resist a teasing attempt to lighten the mood, lifting an eyebrow in fake confusion.

"Don't deflect. You know what I mean." Sam glared, then huffed and took a long drink. "I actually _am_ pissed at myself, so I guess I got that part right in the end."

"Well, knock it off. I'm not pissed, and you don't get to tell me I should be. Only thing that made me upset was how you kept going through Cas instead of coming straight to me once you got really worried."

"As though you would have opened right up and spilled," Sam lobbed back.

"Point," Dean conceded amiably. "But if I don't wanna talk about shit going on in my own life, that's my right. You gotta respect that, Sammy."

Sam looked stricken. "I _know,_ but, Dean, you need to promise that you'll at least tell me when I'm being an ass. God, the fact that I have to ask for that is fucked up, you know? If I was being a jerk to anybody else, you'd have let me have it, but for some reason, you'll just keep silent when it's you that I'm hurting? I mean, what is that?" He shook his head, looking away. "But if you've got stuff you need to talk about, and you _won't_ talk to me, then I'm glad you'll at least talk to Castiel. I mean, I hope you're still doing that. He told me he was uncomfortable talking to me about you, and then he just wouldn't, beyond how your gardening was going or how much better you made his car run."

Dean smirked. "Well, wasn't a high bar to reach, with his car." Then, remembering what Sam had said about Cas being upset, he reached for the phone he'd not turned back on all day. The first thing he saw when he switched it on was a text from Sam, letting him know he'd be dropping by after work "just to catch up." Dean rolled his eyes at the missed heads-up, but he realized he'd probably have found a way to evade his brother if he had seen it coming, anyway.

Before that message, there was a string of texts from Cas.

**_9:10 AM I'm truly sorry and sympathetic. The thought of you being miserable…I wish I could do more._ **

**_9:12 AM Please don't misconstrue that text. I am in no way attempting to pressure you into anything at all with which you are uncomfortable or don't want, now or ever._ **

**_9:20 AM Dean?_ **

**_9:26 AM I hope I haven't offended you. That was never my intention. Please tell me if I've upset you?_ **

**_9:32 AM I'm sorry._ **

Dean's stomach twisted, and his skin felt flushed. He'd let his irritation—probably hormone-driven, at that—and his ridiculously self worth issues get the better of him, and now Cas was hurting. That was the last thing he wanted.

"So…are you okay?" Sam said hesitantly, studying Dean's face.

"Yeah, I'm…" Dean sighed, feeling a little overwhelmed. "Just screwed up something, being a dumbass."

"You're not dumb," Sam immediately rebutted. "And I really hate hearing you say that, because I'm beginning to think you actually believe it. And I feel like that's my fault, too, at least a little."

"Shut up," Dean muttered. He _really_ didn't have the strength for this argument, not now, not with everything else. He kept staring at the phone screen, imagining Cas waiting all day for Dean to reply. Of course Cas hadn't sent any more messages; he cared so much about not overstepping Dean's boundaries that he would almost definitely have assumed the worst, that the vague regret in his message would be interpreted as regret that he couldn't just knot Dean senseless all weekend.

Which…God, yeah, that was _definitely_ a rush of pre-heat hormones making him feel dizzy at the thought. Time to call it quits on this brotherly hangout.

"Look, let's cut to the chase. I'll accept any apologies you feel you need to give, so long as you accept that I don't actually want or need any. And I'll try to do better about not keeping you in the dark about shit if you promise to ease up on the soap opera melodramatic crap. Deal?" He lifted his beer bottle toward Sam, who nodded and clinked his own against it.

"Deal," Sam said, and they drank.

Dean exhaled heavily then, rolling his head around on his neck. "Thank God that's done, at least. Heat's bad enough without getting sent emo pictures of sad puppies and rainclouds on top of it." He stood up and reached for Sam's empty bottle, taking it and his own to the kitchen.

"Come on, the puppies were adorable," Sam playfully insisted, grinning much more genuinely than he had when he'd first arrived.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. But we're good now? And you can get out of here and stop worrying about me, at least for a little bit?"

"As long as you promise to take care of yourself, be safe, and…call me if you need anything, right?" Sam was back to the big, earnest eyes.

"Ew, gross, Sam," Dean teased, wrinkling his nose.

"That's not what I mean!" Sam said hastily, then rolled his eyes when Dean chuckled. "I meant more along the lines of food and drink, support, stuff like that."

"I think I'm good," Dean said. "Cas offered…well, he offered to bring over some groceries if I need them." He hoped the offer was still good, that they could straighten this out and at least get back on comfortable speaking terms before he got pulled too far out of his mind.

"Is he going to help you out in any…other ways?" Sam said, pointedly looking over Dean's shoulder instead of meeting his eyes.

"Sam!" Dean was caught completely off-guard by the frankness of the question. Yeah, they'd been dancing around acknowledging the whole "Dean and Cas" issue all evening, but he'd never come out and directly stated that the two of them had moved beyond anything platonic.

"Just wanted to know, since we've got a pretty big caseload at the office right now, and if he's going to be calling out of work before the weekend, I'll need to shuffle some stuff—"

"All right, that's enough," Dean said, putting a firm hand on Sam's shoulder and steering him toward the door. "Go on and get out, or else I'm going to start describing _exactly_ how this weekend is going to go, starting with a detailed list of my favorite toys."

"Going! I'm going!" Sam yelped, voice pitched embarrassingly high, and he was out the door as fast as he could move. Dean huffed a laugh, then grabbed the phone and leaned back against the wall.

_Just turned my phone back on. Busy all day, exhausted. Not mad at you, Cas. I'm sorry I made you think I was._

To his great relief, his phone buzzed a minute later.

**_7:12 PM That is a great relief. Dean, I felt awful thinking I'd made you angry and upset, particularly if you were already physically uncomfortable._ **

**_7:15 PM I was sincere when I said I wished I could do anything to help, and thinking I made things worse was terrible!_ **

_Well, you can stop feeling bad,_ Dean replied. _I mean, there's no reason both of us should have a crappy weekend._ ****

**_7:29 PM Still not wanting to overstep, and with respect to your privacy, but...do you have everything you need or would like? I know it can vary greatly, but I had a college classmate who was incapacitated for almost a solid week for her heats._ **

_Wow, ouch._ Dean shuddered imagining that horror show. _I should be recovered by Sunday at the latest. Haven't gone more than four days since I was a teenager, and usually it's just three or so._

**_7:33 PM Is there anything that helps? Other than the obvious, of course. Teas, herbs? I read once that people in cultures with spicier cuisines (curries, etc.) tend to have fewer symptoms—something about dilated blood vessels, circulation, etc._ **

_I don't usually have much of an appetite for solid food. Hot pepper smoothies sound damn disgusting._

**_7:37 PM ...there goes my own appetite, too._ **

**_7:38 PM I was thinking more along the lines of soups. I have a recipe for an Indian soup called rasam that's basically a spicy tomato broth. I can drop some by? If you prefer, I can send Sam with it, or else put it on your porch. You can wait until I've left to get it._ **

_Cas, you don't have to ding-dong-ditch a soup delivery._

**_7:40 PM It's no trouble. It takes less than ten minutes to make._ **

Dean rolled his eyes to the ceiling. _No, I just mean that I'm not that pathetic. Just knock, and if I can answer, I will._

A few minutes passed.

**_7:46 PM To be perfectly frank, after scenting you this morning, I'm not sure I can handle being near you in full heat. Not that I think I'd lose control, but...it's hard enough right now to think about anything else. If I'm to have any prayer at all of getting any work done over the next few days, I had better not risk it._ **

And that... _that_ was what Dean had wanted to hear this morning. Now he felt the perfect blend of wanted and respected, and it filled him with a warm glow that, added to the hormonally elevated heat of his blood, had him flushed and giddy. At this rate, that early bedtime was going to be about anything but sleep; the show was kicking off sooner than even he had anticipated.

 _Yeah, okay._ He couldn't think of how else to respond without sounding like a complete idiot. _I'll call you when it's all clear._

**_7:50 PM I'll be waiting._ **

Dean shuddered and practically tripped over his own feet, hurrying toward his bedroom.


	16. I Will Not Ask You Where You Came From

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez. Sorry this one took so long - days of writing doggedly but only managing a few hundred words at a time. Summer reading time at the library means the start of chaos! But since we're doing a "Camp NaNoWriMo" here in July, and I feel sort of obligated to write something myself (since I'm running the program), I would love to push hard and get this at least mostly wrapped up soon, before I get started there. Really only a few loose ends to go!
> 
> (This one's even less edited than the other chapters, so if you see anything egregiously wrong, let me know.)

"Catching up on some housework. Some running. Running a lot, actually—more than was probably wise, but, well…" Castiel shrugged, his Skype-screen image not disguising the sheepish expression on his face. "I was a bit restless, with some energy to burn. Paying for it now." He cringed comically, and Dean chuckled.

It had been a long weekend, as expected, and though Dean was much more clear-headed now, late on Sunday evening, he was still too tired to haul himself out of bed and put on pants, let alone consider getting started airing out the house or attacking the enormous piles of dirty towels and sheets that had accumulated over the course of his heat. He even felt the exhaustion in his hands, so he'd opted to take the lazier route of calling Cas instead of texting. Using Skype instead of a normal phone call—that choice had far less to do with his professed excuse of being "too wiped to hold a phone" and way more to do with an emotional need to lay eyes on the man, though admitting so was not even close to happening. He was feeling vulnerable enough as it was.

Seeing Cas's eyes blow wide for a heartbeat at the sight of his shirtless torso, even as blotchy and salty from sweating as he was, and hearing his voice grow hoarse as his conversation rambled for a few minutes…well, it was kind of gratifying. It helped remind Dean that he was more than the gross ball of hormones and need that he'd been all weekend.

Despite their earlier moments of intimacy, there was now an awkwardness between them, as Cas seemed to be struggling not to mention the 800-pound gorilla in the room, the fact that Dean had basically spent the weekend sprawled in that very bed, using toys and his hands to get himself off as many times as possible. But it was turning out like the old trick of telling somebody not to think about pink elephants, with the result that pink elephants become the only thing the brain can see. Dean had finally broken the tension himself, deliberately shifting on the bed so that he could wince in the apparent discomfort of an aching ass. Cas immediately asked whether he was all right, opening the way for Dean to talk about the ups and downs of how things had gone, and, just that easily, they had slipped back into their usual comfortable dynamic.

"Well, Forrest Gump, maybe if you can still put one foot in front of the other tomorrow, I should finally go out running with you. Might be my best opportunity to actually keep pace with you, huh?" He grinned teasingly.

"Are you feeling up to that, then?" Cas asked, not patronizingly, but with curiosity.

"Oh, sure. Actually, the exhaustion eases up pretty fast, all things considered, so long as you don't do anything stupid, and so long as you don't get too dehydrated or starved. Just gotta be prepared. And by the way, thanks again for that Indian soup you left me. That stuff was like magic or something. I don't think I've ever actually felt _hungry_ during a heat before, but I could have downed a whole stock pot of it, after the first spoonful." The aroma of the peppers, tomatoes, and citrus had cut through everything else, nearly pulling him completely out of his haze while he was eating.

"Then it was my pleasure to make it for you," Cas said, sounding pleased. "Dehydration is terrible. When Claire had the flu this winter, my brother got a little behind with her Pedialyte routine, and she nearly wound up needing to be admitted to the hospital."

"Yeah, it's no joke," Dean agreed. "First heat I had after I went off the suppressants, I had no idea what I was doing or how to prepare, and it was a wretched one. So stupid—all I had in my fridge was a half-empty bottle of orange juice and a six-pack of beer. Not to mention the complete lack of, uh, other types of supplies?" He winced, remembering. "Had to improvise _way_ more than I'd ever recommend, in pretty much every respect, and I was still feeling the upshot of it all practically right up until the next time around. Learned my lesson, believe me."

"I'm sure you did," Cas nodded sympathetically.

"Yep. At least a case of beer on hand at all times." Dean's wink drew a loud groan from Cas, and he laughed. He wouldn't admit to how close to the truth that had come a few times; he was doing better now, which was what mattered.

"So here's what I don't understand, and feel free to tell me to butt out or mind my own business," Castiel said. "You've mentioned a couple of times about having stopped suppressing. As unhappy as you are about having heats, why did you decide to stop taking the suppressants? I'd think even a gentle prescription would make things easier for you."

Dean couldn't prevent the grimace his mouth formed. _Dammit, too tired for any kind of poker face._

Cas immediately reacted to the change in facial expression. "It's a sensitive topic, I see. Forget I asked. It's certainly a personal decision, and I'm not entitled to your reasons."

"Hey, cut it out, that's not…that's not it at all. I just…" Dean hesitated. On one hand, his brain was still way too foggy to have any filter between it and his mouth, and even though the short answer was simple, the direction the ensuing conversation was likely to steer was one that could be painful without that barrier in place. On the other hand, maybe this was the perfect timing for that to happen. There was a certain catharsis that came in the aftermath of a heat cycle, and Dean's feelings were much closer to the surface than they were at any other time. Sharing would require much less effort, even if there was the risk of accidentally sharing too much. He probably should have been nervous about that, but this was Cas. He trusted Cas, and the realization of how much he did hit him fully in that moment.

He knew he was going to have this talk sooner or later. His last chat with Charlie had helped him decide that.

 _"No, I wouldn't necessarily call it 'keeping secrets,' Dean. I also don't think that Sam, Castiel, or anybody else who loves and respects you would consider it that, either. There's a big difference between guarding your own privacy and secret keeping, and you are allowed to have privacy. You don't owe your backstory to anyone."_ Charlie had been gentle but firm, comforting him in his worries but forcing him to be respectful toward himself. _"The only person you really owe anything at all, in this case, is that little boy whose childhood was given away all those years ago. I want you to think about letting him have some happiness now, whatever that means."_

Thinking about "whatever that means" had taken up a lot of his hours between going to bed and actually falling asleep. Dean thought, based on what everybody else had been insisting lately, that maybe the biggest wrong he'd done to himself might have been putting on a mask and pretending he was fine with whatever happened to him, so long as it kept the peace and everybody he loved was safe and happy. He still wasn't entirely convinced, himself, that it had always been a mistake to handle things that way, but…maybe he could try taking off the mask, just for once, just to see.

And doing it over Skype might be the best possible way to do it, too. No scents to distract either him or Cas. If he got too upset, he wouldn't have to worry about his pheromones screaming at Cas to just grab onto him and hold him tight, as though it would make anything better or easier.

"Okay, so here's the thing. We can talk about this, and yeah, it gets pretty personal, but, like, all I ask is two things. The first one isn't even really a thing, because you already do this, and you just said it again. If I say something's too personal, you gotta trust me and let it go, okay? Just for now?"

If Cas hadn't been so solemnly focused on the apparent weight of the discussion, Dean was sure he would have rolled his eyes. "Of course," he said quietly.

"Yeah, just making sure. Forgot to tell you, the day my heat hit, Sam finally hit his breaking point over not prying into my business, and I practically wound up with a reality-show confrontation on my lawn, tears and all."

Frowning, Cas rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Would that have anything to do with why he grabbed my arm and thanked me so fervently when I brought him some extra copies of a few briefs the next morning? His smile was…unnervingly wide."

"I don't even ask," Dean snorted. "Anyway, the other thing, and this one might be harder. I need you to not jump to judgment about situations or people right away, no matter how weird or bad anything I say might come off, 'cause there's no way I can give, like, my entire life story in one sitting, but a lot of stuff requires context, you know? I mean, nobody's really all bad or all good, and…and it's hard for me not to get defensive sometimes, even when it's stupid."

"All right, first, I promise to do my best to stay level-headed and impartial, though _you_ know that _I_ sometimes have difficulty not getting just as defensive," Cas said wryly. "We seem to have an abundance of righteous indignation between us, simmering at the ready. But second, I don't like hearing you using that word to describe it."

Dean hummed noncommittally in response. "Anyway. So, to answer your question, when I used to suppress, I got put on OvaNull."

Castiel immediately sucked in a breath, and Dean glanced at him sharply. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Cas said, holding up both hands. "But…hasn't that been off the market for decades, since the lawsuits?"

"Not sure when it got pulled, but at least ten years. I stopped maybe fifteen years ago, and when I went back to the doctor, it was a whole new world of treatment." Dean shook his head, recalling. "I mean, not that I would even have wanted those drugs, even if they were still around. They made me feel completely drugged out half the time, like I couldn't even see straight."

"They dampened nearly every hormonal function of the body, which was the reason they were discontinued," Cas said. "I was still a law student when the news hit and everybody was waiting on the lawsuits. Even then, though, I seem to recall that it was primarily intended for older omegas and those preparing for hysterectomy. Why on earth would your doctor have given it to you?"

"Well, it's what Dad asked for," Dean answered, biting his lip.

A beat passed in silence. Then Cas nodded carefully. "This is one of those things you didn't want me to judge. I am doing my best." That was true, Dean thought. Cas might have been almost visibly vibrating with the need to react, but he was keeping determinedly silent instead.

"Cas, listen. I'm fine," Dean said. "But anyway, that's why I don't suppress now. No doc wants the liability of doing anything else to me, in case whatever they gave me turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back. My current doctor gave me some decent painkillers, though, so it's not completely terrible."

"Well, sure, if you need something stronger than pepper soup," Cas said dryly, then exhaled heavily before speaking again. "You're a very gracious man, Dean. I have no idea how you aren't upset or angry, being overtreated like that out of convenience for those meant to care for you."

"What, convenience?" Dean felt confused. "That wasn't why he went that way."

"Then what? Why else completely erase almost everything about your presentation except to avoid having to acknowledge or help you handle it? I'm trying to be objective, but I am at a loss."

"That's because you're only seeing half of the story," Dean argued. "Dad was misguided in a lot of ways, broken after losing Mom, messed up by a lot of the shit that went on in his life, and in his own twisted way, he was actually trying to do what he thought was best for me then. He legitimately didn't want me to have to go through all that."

"Well, then the doctor should have taken the time to actually explain omega biology to your father, helped him to understand a little better so he could have guided you instead of trying to change you." Cas spoke slowly and deliberately, obviously trying desperately to frame his remarks as casual instead of as attacks.

"Uh, Cas?" Dean said, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. "Did you think my dad was an alpha?" He smirked a little, darkly humored. "You know how they say the people putting out the most anger are the ones actually angriest with themselves? Yeah, Dad was actually an omega, too."

The stunned look on Castiel's face was worth every tense moment that went before it, and Dean actually grinned to see it. "But…I don't…whenever you've mentioned him, you gave the impression that he was controlling, critical of you, dismissive."

Dean huffed, his lips twisting. "What, you think omegas can't be assholes? Yeah, Dad could be all of that. He _hated_ being an omega, and I think it broke the last of his calm over it when I presented that way, too, and he realized he was going to have to watch me go that path. He spent his whole life being called weak, made to believe it for truth down at his very core, even as he raged against it." Cas looked physically pained, so Dean stopped looking at the screen while he talked. "If it hadn't been for Mom, he would never, ever, have considered having kids. Too much shit wrapped up in being a 'breeder,' mocked for it by half the world and being told it's your only value by the other half."

"But he did have you both," Cas murmured.

"Yeah, Mom was persuasive," Dean agreed. "Or, flip side, Dad was a pushover for anything she asked. Depends on who's remembering. She was his life, and from what I've heard, those years with her were probably the only really good ones he had. And, of course, it had to end in the most epically horrible way possible."

"Dean…"

"House fire." Dean folded his arms across his hips tightly, not looking up for anything at this point. "We were all in bed, and the fire started in the nursery. And there's Dad, caught between ingrained omega instincts to save his pups and his own emotional need to protect the woman he loved. He completely froze. Mom had to order him to take us and run, which was probably the only thing that could have got him moving at that point. It was because she did that we're alive, and it was because she did that he was across the street, holding onto us, when the ceiling fell in on her." Dean's voice broke, and he swallowed hard to clear his throat; Cas let him take his time, giving him all the space he needed to gather himself. "When Dad told the story, if he was sober, he'd insist that he thought Mom was right behind him, that he didn't know she wasn't until it was too late. When he'd been drinking…then he'd admit that it wouldn't have mattered one way or the other. He obeyed her, and she died, and he hated himself for it. For being too weak to save her."

Only his closed eyelids prevented the tears from sliding down his cheeks by the end, but his voice didn't desert him, for which he was grateful. He kept his eyes closed, unable to stop seeing the shattered look John Winchester's face had worn every time he came home too drunk to hide his anger but not drunk enough to forget his pain. It had happened more and more often toward the end, after Sam had left and the house had become menacingly, frighteningly quiet.

"I don't think I have any words adequate for this moment," Cas finally said. Without looking up at him, Dean could still feel the weight of his gaze. It wasn't uncomfortable, though.

"'S'ok," Dean said, trying to shake free from the ghosts of the past. "I don't usually either, which is why I never talk about it. Uh, I probably won't want to talk about it again, either, just so you know. This…this is, like, a one-time deal, or at least a limited-time seasonal thing, okay?" The joke should have fallen flat, but Cas made a quietly amused noise in acknowledgment. "Anyway, only reason I bring it up now is, well, might help you get why I got some of the issues I do. Dad was damn messed up, and he couldn't really decide whether he wanted us to be too strong to break like he did, or whether he wanted unquestioning little soldiers he could control so he wouldn't feel so powerless. Once I presented, it got even harder for him, because he'd wanted me to be a strong man, but he still had all that shit about what a 'good omega' was in his head, and even if you know in your heart what a pile of bullshit it is, you can't _not_ hear it, can't not buy into it at some level after a while, so even when he was shouting at me to stand up and be a real man, he was turning right around and telling me that's what I'd never really be."

The slight edge of bitterness was easier to handle than the sorrow, and Dean finally got himself put together enough to open his eyes and look up again. He was a little scared of how much this revelation would have affected Cas; he didn't think he could handle it well if he was crying, too, or if he was looking at him with pity in his eyes. Whatever Castiel had been going through as Dean had talked, though, now he was watching him with something that looked startlingly like wonder.

"How are you even functional?" murmured Cas, almost to himself. Dean flushed, uneasy under the scrutiny, and Cas cocked his head, lowering his eyebrows quellingly. "I'm serious, Dean. Hearing your past, knowing how you were brought up, and then seeing the man you are today…I don't think you realize how remarkable you truly are."

_Remarkably messed up._

_You must be easily impressed, man._

_Yeah, ain't I just a special snowflake._

A thousand snarky deflections, made habit through years of practice, passed through Dean's mind and almost tumbled from his mouth. He bit them back, gnawing the inside of cheek, and kept quiet.

"I really wish I was there with you in my arms right now," Cas continued, a little wistfully. Dean wanted that, too, but the lingering gut-twist of vulnerability made him want to lighten the moment instead.

"Nah, you don't. Maybe if I was there at your place, but the air in here is barely breathable at the moment. Even I can tell at this point. Gonna need to lay down some industrial-strength Febreeze before I can even risk opening a window."

A torn look flashed across Castiel's face. "I wish… Maybe don't neutralize it _too_ much? I just…I missed your scent this weekend."

"Dude," Dean stated. "There's scents and then there's _scents_. I mean, my room practically has a _flavor_ right now."

"Not helping." Cas's nostrils flared as his jaw clenched, and his voice sounded strained. Dean smirked faintly as he felt himself pulled that much further out of the painful past and back into solid footing in the present.

"You could come over tomorrow after work," he suggested as a compromise. "Give me a chance to clean up a bit and restock the kitchen so there's something to eat besides Sam's old stale protein bars and leftovers, but, uh, it'll probably be…you know. A little _reminiscent._ " Waggling his eyebrows, he grinned slyly.

"I'd like that very much," Cas agreed, the polite restraint of the words not matching the raw desire in his eyes. "You have no idea. Let me bring the dinner, though. Some of our faster plants have begun producing, and I have some thoughts about what to do with them."

"Here's where I'd made a joke about spicing things up, but it feels almost too easy," drawled Dean happily. He felt a yawn coming, and he stretched his shoulders, rolling his head on his neck. "Well, if I'm cleaning, I better get started, or else I'll fall asleep first. G'night, Cas."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Cas replied, corners of his eyes crinkling with the huge smile he wore. The Skype call disconnected, but it was several long, dreamy minutes before Dean could pull his head out of the clouds, climb out of the bed, and march toward the shower.


	17. Come On Baby, Light My Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed, barely proofread...

It was six-fifteen in the morning, and instead of hitting the snooze button on his alarm clock, Dean was sitting up in his bed, reaching for the gym shorts he'd laid out the night before, almost automatically. A rush of mildly surprised satisfaction hit him; part of him had been worried that the few days he'd taken away from his routine would have caused him to fall back on old bad habits. Instead, it seemed as though his body had actually missed the time away from his developing schedule. A couple of blocks into the run, muscles warming under the exertion, he felt like he was flying down the sidewalk, and he grinned at the lightness in his legs.

Just after seven o'clock, and he was stepping into the shower, rinsing away the sweat and the salt as he sang cheerfully. "And so today, my world it smiles, your hand in mine, we walk the miles…" He was still humming when he rummaged through his closet for his clothes, neatly folded and organized instead of piled in a corner. When he'd finally gotten around to cleaning up that heap of new clothing after his date, he'd gone ahead and sorted everything else in order to make room for it. The closet hadn't been a huge wreck before that, or at least not usually, but he'd been making even more of an effort to keep up with the folding since then. Easier when you make it a habit, not a scramble, he'd decided.

He did frown a little when he'd moved on to breakfast. There was plenty of time, and he wasn't running late by any stretch, but he hadn't been exaggerating over the sparseness of his cabinet contents, and there hadn't been energy for a grocery visit before bed last night. For some reason, the half-full box of Apple Pie Pop Tarts, purchased so many months ago and yet still somehow not nearly as stale as they should have been (scarier living through technology, Dean mused dubiously) no longer sounded nearly as appealing as they had when he'd bought them. He'd gotten used to a fresher breakfast than that.

Frowning at the banana on the counter, more brown than yellow, he considered. There were also a couple of bruised apples in the fridge he'd saved, thinking he could chop away the edible parts for use in a crumble. And a cup of—ew, plain yogurt? Oh, right, he'd accidentally picked that up, thinking it was vanilla. The wheels in his head turned, and inspiration struck. Where had he thrown the blender, after the last time he had an impulse craving for daiquiris?  

Fifteen minutes and a bit of experimentation later, Dean was driving to work sipping a creditable fruit smoothie. It might not have been professional grade (the tartness of the plain yogurt hadn't quite been balanced out by the fruit on hand, and he'd had to tinker with it a while before finally hitting on the idea of adding peanut butter), but it was filling, cheap, and even Sam would have approved of the nutritional content. On a whim, Dean had snapped a picture of it in the blender, slapping it up onto his Instagram account and tagging his brother: " _My breakfast is better than yours #foodfight_ " Adding that hashtag made him smirk at himself, feeling like the stereotypical old guy trying too hard to prove he was still "hip." He'd seen Sam do it, though.

Dean hummed through his morning, under his breath and occasionally slipping into full singing when the song took him. "Now everything's fine under heaven, now and then you've got to take time to pause, da-da-dum, mmm-mmm…" Lying on his back under the Ford Taurus with only his legs poking out, he nodded his head and crooned as he worked, completely oblivious to his co-workers standing nearby, dumbfounded, communicating with each other through shrugs and gestures in the direction of where his feet subtly danced in place to the rhythms of his songs.

Tightening the last bolt, Dean slid out from under the car and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Asa, Walt, and Bobby staring down at him. "Jesus!" he cried, nearly dropping the socket wrench on his face. Walt snickered, breaking off in a cough when Asa caught him in the ribs with an elbow. Throwing an arm over his face and trying to bring his pulse back under control, Dean gasped, "You guys trying to give me a heart attack or something?"

"If we'd wanted to do that, I'd've let Walt bang on the engine block with a crowbar, like he was gonna," Bobby grumbled, failing to hide the way his lips were twitching with amusement under his beard. "Didn't feel like dealing with workman's comp paperwork for the concussion, though."

"You could sell the radio to help cover it, though," Asa teasingly suggested. "Dean can handle the entertainment from now on, right?"

"Yeah, the whole four dollars I'd get for a something I picked up at Radio Shack in 1987 would totally pay for a bandaid and maybe a lollipop at the doctor's office," Bobby shot back. "Anyway, you idjits don't stand around gaping at my radio like you were doing to Dean, here, so I think we'll keep things the way they are. Now, get back to work." Asa and Walt sheepishly headed back to their bays, and Bobby stepped closer to Dean. "Now, far be it from me, boy, to complain about you being happy. Just tell me you're getting your work done while you're serenading us all?"

"This one's all finished up, and all I've got on the sheet for the afternoon is a brake job and the weird electrical issues on the Town and Country that came in last night."

"Good, good," Bobby said, nodding dismissively. "Glad to have you back, sunshine, even if you are about three minutes away from bursting into a soft-shoe routine. And no, I don't want to know why, so spare me the details."

Dean grinned and winked. "Got it. And I'll try to have the van done as quick as I can—gotta clear out in plenty of time tonight for a hot date."

"I said I didn't want to know!" Bobby growled, stomping back toward his office, and Dean laughed to himself as he grabbed for his clipboard.

When his shift finally ended, Dean pulled open the door of his locker and automatically threw his hand up to prevent the cascade of items balanced precariously on the top shelf. He snorted and shook his head a little. _Some things haven't changed,_ he mused, not nearly as critically as he might have been at one time. His work locker had become a catch-all for random items from his car, articles of clothing that he'd needed on chilly mornings but abandoned by the afternoon, various work-related papers and paraphernalia, and even a few items customers had given him that had never made it further than this holding position. (What, was he supposed to just _throw away_ the My Little Pony figure handed to him by the earnest-looking preschooler in thanks for unjamming the Wiggles CD stuck in their car stereo? He wasn't made of stone.)

He didn't have time to sort everything out now, either, but he grabbed the flannel shirts and the jacket stuffed into the back of the locker, thinking to at least take them home and clean them. It wasn't as though they needed to be there at this point, anyway, with the weather having warmed decisively. Yanking the jacket free and causing a couple of things to spill from the pockets, he tried to catch everything before it hit the grease-stained concrete. A paper napkin between his fingers immediately distracted him.

_"How to be a successful adult,"_ the somewhat faded penciled script across the top read. _"1. Get regular check-ups with doctors and dentists…"_

The napkin was crumpled, torn at the edges, and looking much the worse for wear, but it made Dean's whole body fill with warmth. Remembering how he'd sat in the booth at the bar, sketching out a life plan that he'd really only half believed would actually work, he felt as though it had all happened a million years ago. He thought back on how he'd pictured himself that night, how he'd imagined himself transforming into a completely different person, one who was sophisticated, polished, and, primarily, worthy of Castiel's attention.

It hadn't shaken out like that at all. He was still himself—goofy, impulsive, partial to trash TV and loud music, way more likely to be found in plaid flannel than tweed or pinstripes. And he'd completely misunderstood Cas's priorities and feelings, but he'd somehow managed to stumble his way into the best thing he'd ever had. The fact that he felt happier and healthier than he'd ever felt in his life was something _beside_ that relationship, not just a facet of it; he'd done it himself, _for_ himself, and no matter how things with Cas shook out in the end, this was something he'd get to keep.

So this was self-worth. Huh.

Carefully, as though it was the freaking Shroud of Turin, Dean folded the napkin. He grabbed an envelope from the front desk on his way out, putting the napkin inside to protect it against any further damage. Still beaming, he felt more music rising up in his chest, and he didn't even attempt to restrain it. _"Her face is cracked from smiling, all the fears that she's been hiding, and it seems that pretty soon, everybody's gonna know…"_

\---

By the time Dean saw Castiel's car pulling up in his driveway, he was bouncing off the walls. The energy that made his morning run so effortless had been growing all day, and now he was getting close to _Risky Business,_ slide-across-the-floor-in-your-socks levels of buzzing excitement. He'd belted choruses into his shampoo bottle, danced his way into his jeans, and was now straightening up the living room with the stereo cranked, spinning and shimmying to the beat.

Cas had texted earlier, checking whether it would be all right to use Dean's backyard grill for part of their dinner, and now he rummaged in his backseat, emerging with armloads of bags and a flat box. Dean hurried out to relieve him of some of the burden. "Jeez," he said, "it is just the two of us, right? How much food did you bring?"

"Well, it's not actually as much as it looks," Cas demurred, bumping the car door closed with his hip. "Most of it has components, though, and it was better to bring them separately." They made their way to the kitchen, where Cas quickly searched the bags and put a couple of things into the refrigerator and freezer. Then he turned, a huge smile on his face. "Now, then," he said, and reached for Dean.

Stepping into Castiel's arms, even after only a few days apart, felt like coming home. It was meant to be just a simple, brief hug, Dean was sure, but neither of them appeared to have any inclination to leave it at that; once they had their arms wrapped around each other, it just felt so _damn good_ that Dean wasn't about to be the first to pull away. Cas, meanwhile, had plastered himself to Dean's front, pressed against him from thigh to shoulder, and had buried his nose in the crook of his neck.

"Missed you," Cas might have said, though the words were muffled and fairly unintelligible. The meaning was clear, though, and Dean murmured his agreement, warming even further when he felt Cas's arms tighten even more. The scent filling the kitchen was heavenly, and Dean was fully aware that none of it was emanating from any of the bags or containers.

Finally, several minutes or a lifetime later, the spell was broken by the vibration of a rumbling stomach, though it was unclear whose it was. Cas lifted his head and grinned dopily. "Sorry, got sidetracked," he apologized.

"No complaints here," Dean said. "So, the grill is out back, all set for you. Burgers? I hope you didn't spend money for steaks or anything like that."

"Not steaks, and not burgers," Cas said mischievously. He grabbed the flat box and led the way outside. "Really, I just needed the grill for the heat. Can't do this as well in an oven unless you're willing to make some, shall we say, after-market modifications. I didn't want to void your warranty, though I'm afraid mine is a lost cause. It was entirely worth it, though."  Putting the box on a table, he lifted the lid to display the contents.

"Grilled…pizza?" Dean frowned in confusion.

"The best crust requires a cooking temperature well over five hundred degrees. Personally, I disabled my oven's cleaning cycle lock, so I can open the door when it's running, and that gets me the heat I need." Cas got the coals burning, closing the lid so the heat could rise. "We'll give that some time to heat up. It won't take too long to cook once it's started, so if you'd like, we can start eating something else first?"

Making token protests over the apparent effort to which Cas had gone for this meal, Dean nearly felt himself start salivating when the first bag's contents were revealed to be a large crock of tomato soup. "Gazpacho," Cas pronounced, pride in his voice. "My grape and cherry tomato plants are pretty much exploding right now. Every time I turn around, it feels like there's another blossom dropping and another tomato popping out. I've never seen them this fruitful before, but I suppose I did try a new fertilizer this year."

"Either write 'em a great review someplace or take the secret to your grave," Dean joked.

"Well, I'm not sure where I'd put a review," Cas said thoughtfully. "I didn't exactly purchase it through the garden store this time. A friend of a friend concocted it—it's completely organic, to the best of my ability to tell, but beyond that…" He shrugged.

Dean eyed the soup. "Is this going to turn me into an X-Man?"

"I haven't sprouted claws or become telekinetic yet."

"Well, don't give up hope yet. Summer's still going." Dean took their bowls to the table, and Cas followed with a smaller, covered bowl, which turned out to contain a golden-colored cream.

"This is my own experiment," Cas said, pointing at it. "In a lot of food presentations, creme fraiche is used to tone down the heat of the dish it tops. I decided to go the other way, so this is cream infused with chiltepin peppers. I roasted and pureed them, and it's pretty potent."

That much was clear; even in the dairy base, Dean could smell the oils from the peppers. He winked before plopping a large scoop of the cream directly into his gazpacho. Cas nodded approvingly before doing the same to his own. Since the soup was cold, the cream didn't melt into the mixture, and Dean made sure that his first bite contained both soup and cream, confident that, no matter how experimental the combination was, it was going to be good.

It was. He said as much while blinking eyes that immediately began to water. Unlike many of the insane peppers he'd ever tried, though, the heat was all up front, and the cream and coolness of the soup abated the burn rapidly. "Wow," Dean breathed, loving the contrast. Cas flushed under the praise.

Afterward, they went back outside to check the coals, which were deemed hot enough. "Okay, it's pepperoni, which I know you like, and that should go well with the Thai bird's eye peppers — _capsicum annuum_ blooms fast and early, so there were a lot of those. The heat on these is a little slower burn than the chiltepins, but I did want something that lasted even longer, so I also brought some chocolate habaneros from late last season that I dried." The container of dried peppers rustled lightly when he shook it. "How hot do we want to go?"

"Light us up, hot stuff," Dean purred teasingly with a slow wink, then immediately cracked up laughing when Cas rolled his eyes at him. With the addition of the extra peppers, the pizza went into the heat, and the lid hid it from view. Dean grabbed them a couple of drinks from the kitchen, and they relaxed in the cooling evening air while they waited for the main course.

"It's a lovely yard, Dean," Cas commented. "Maybe not as much sunlight as you'd want for gardening, but the seclusion is nice." A high privacy fence, lined along the back with some bushes that grew tall and unkempt, meant that Dean could almost forget that he even had neighbors at all. Not that he'd ever really had a need for tons of privacy there; other than using the grill or sitting on the porch and watching fireflies on the occasional summer night, he'd not actually spent much time in his yard before. Now his head was filling with _ideas_ about that privacy, thanks to Castiel's offhand remark, and he had to take a long swallow of his drink.

The pizza cooked quickly, and it smelled…dangerous. A breeze wafted the smoke toward Dean for a moment, and he coughed. "Um, are we pepper-gassing the neighborhood birds here?" he asked in mild concern.

"Birds don't have a problem with peppers," Cas said, frowning. "On the other hand…" He lifted the grill lid. "Oh. Well, that was probably foreseeable." A thin, oily sheen covered the top of the pizza lightly; it glistened threateningly. Cas tilted his head, examining it. "Apparently, the habaneros have rehydrated in the oil from the pepperoni, and the pepper oils have spread a little."

"Oh, boy," Dean murmured. "Well, I did ask for this. Nothing to be done for it now, right?"

"This is now our doom, which if we can sustain and bear, our Supreme Foe in time may much remit his anger," Cas replied solemnly; his tone made it clear that he was quoting. "And perhaps, thus far removed, not mind us not offending, satisfied with what is punished; whence these raging fires will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames." He moved the pizza to a platter and closed the grill with a dramatic flourish.

"Or we could just grab some glasses of milk," Dean deadpanned.

Cas threw him a look of mock exasperation as they carried the food and drink indoors. "Sure, that would work, if you wanted to take the obvious route," he sighed. Dean chuckled, clearing a place on the table for the pizza. "Anyway, I'm a sucker for _Paradise Lost,_ and it seemed fitting. A fallen angel, hoping for mercy and an eventual end to his suffering."

"And on that note…" Dean cut a slice and lifted it to his mouth. He attempted to avoid getting any oil on his lips, but it was a lost cause; the pepper oils had bled over every bit of it. The first bite was delicious; a few heartbeats later, he was suddenly flushed from head to toe, sweat popping out on his forehead. "Gaaaaaaah!"

"Right behind you!" Cas said with a salute. He managed to control his reaction slightly more successfully, lowering his slice to his plate and pounding hard on his knee with a fist. "Good," he rasped. "It's good!"

"My eyes won't focus," Dean whimpered, continuing to eat with dogged determination. With every bite, the kitchen seemed to shimmer around him a little more strangely. _Screw pride,_ he decided, lunging for the fridge and the gallon of milk. He barely managed to stop himself from chugging directly from the container, scrambling instead for a couple of tumblers in the cabinet. Cas laughed, but it was a giddy sound, and he didn't hesitate to grab the cup when Dean filled it.

The milk didn't remove the burn completely, but sipping it let Dean and Cas keep eating and enjoying the pizza. The burn built on itself, and the rising level of endorphins had them giggling at nothing, faces red and perspiring. Thankfully, it hadn't been a huge pizza; a few slices were more than enough to satisfy each of them. "I should pack up a slice and give it to Sam," Dean remarked. "'Hey, you like fruit on your pizza, right, Sammy? Try this!'"

"I can't decide whether to advise you about whether that could legally be considered assault, or if I should offer my services as a defense attorney on the grounds that it would be hysterically funny," Cas said, wiping his forehead and chuckling. "Anyway, how about dessert?"

"Are you still hungry? Far be it from me to turn down dessert, but I'm not sure my stomach could handle it at this point, after that assault," Dean protested weakly. There wasn't much to clean up, but he started clearing the table, rinsing the plates and bowls.

Cas raised a reassuring hand as he jumped up to help. "I took that into consideration when I chose it, though I didn't realize dinner would be anything close to that level of intensity. Plain vanilla ice cream. It'll go down easily, and it should actually help, not hurt." Drying his hands, he opened the freezer and removed the carton, holding it out enticingly.

"Okay, that sounds like a plan," Dean agreed. "Living room? I can feel the adrenaline starting to wear off, and the couch sounds pretty appealing." Cas nodded, grabbing a couple of spoons and following him.

"Now, don't tell me you made this yourself, too," Dean said once they were seated close together and digging into the ice cream carton that he had taken from Cas and now held between them. He realized that he wasn't remotely uncomfortable with the intimacy of eating from a shared container, and Cas hadn't appeared to have given it a second thought, either.

"Ice cream isn't difficult, Dean," Cas replied, "but, no, this is from the farmer's market this weekend. I missed having you there with me, and when I saw this, I imagined sharing it with you." He blushed a little as he spoke, but he didn't look away.

"Big sap," Dean murmured. He scooped a small amount of the ice cream onto the tip of his spoon and aimed it at Castiel's mouth. At the last moment, as Cas opened, he steered away and deliberately smeared it onto his lips instead. Cas made a surprised sound, but it turned into a sigh when Dean leaned forward and kissed it off, gently and chastely.

Cas retaliated then, aiming a spoonful for the tip of Dean's nose and grinning when Dean crossed his eyes to see it. He wiped it away, then, letting his fingers linger on Dean's cheekbone as he did. "Of course, there was another method to my madness, beyond making sure that this part of the meal was simple and soothing to the stomach," he said.

"Mmmm, really?" Dean fed another bite to Cas, this time making sure it actually made it into his mouth; he kissed him again, a little deeper, chasing the taste of the vanilla. Cas responded eagerly, wrapping his free hand around the back of Dean's neck and dragging him closer.

"Mmm-hmmm," he said, humming against Dean's lips when he pulled back slightly after a moment. Apparently, he wasn't finished feeding Dean; he scooped another bite from the carton and held it out, watching avidly as Dean wrapped his lips around the spoon. "Pepper oils are a chemical base. One of the reasons milk, or ice cream, helps to cool us down is because the lactic acids neutralize those oils."

Dean was having a difficult time caring about food chemistry, all of his brain cells focusing far more intently on a different sort of physical reaction. The deep timbre of Castiel's voice was hypnotic, though, even if the actual words were only vaguely registering. He held a spoonful in front of Cas's mouth and almost groaned when Cas lowered his head and licked at the ice cream with the tip of his tongue before swallowing it.

"There's something else, too," Cas said, eyeing the way Dean's adam's apple jerked; his eyes got a little darker. "The milk fat. It binds to the oil, covering it, helping pull it safely away. Tell me, Dean, have you ever accidentally touched your eyes after preparing or eating peppers?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Hurts like a bitch." It was too much to resist. Dean lightly traced his spoon along the side of Cas's throat, then leaned forward and licked the line of ice cream it left behind. Cas made a breathy noise; his fingers briefly convulsed in the short hair at the base of Dean's scalp.

"Understand, then," Cas said, voice breaking slightly under Dean's continued mouthing along his neck. "Understand that, while I didn't want to make any assumptions, I also didn't want to take any chances. Pepper oils lingering on lips, in mouths…and there are places on bodies more sensitive than eyes, and… _Dean_ …"

Abruptly, Castiel sat upright and took the container of ice cream from Dean's hand, placing it and both spoons on the coffee table. With the barrier between them removed, he immediately threw himself back at Dean, recapturing his lips with ferocity. His hands slid down Dean's chest, stroking up and down, before landing on the top button of his shirt as he broke the kiss, panting. "Let me be perfectly clear," he said, sounding wrecked and breathless. "I want my mouth on you. I have _needed_ to touch you, to taste you, for _ages,_ and I'd like to do that _right now_. Is that all right?"

Dean was nowhere near as coherent; stringing words together into an intelligible statement required real effort, but he nodded frantically, not a whit ashamed of how obviously desperate he knew he looked. Cas looked no less wild, and that fueled the rising need pulsing through Dean's mind and body.

Satisfied with the consent given, Cas dived back into the kiss, swinging one leg over Dean's lap to kneel above him, pressing him back into the cushions with his chest. Dean's head swam with arousal and sensation. Cas kissed as though the fate of the world depended on it; in what Dean's fleeting sense of objectivity proclaimed as a stunning display of superhuman multitasking, he somehow managed to get Dean's shirt untucked and unbuttoned without disengaging his tongue or pausing for breath. Only when the shirt was hanging loose from his shoulders did Cas slide his lips away, mouthing his way downward along Dean's throat to his chest.

The noise Dean made when those lips slipped around his nipple was completely undignified. Far from judging, though, Cas seemed incredibly motivated to get him to repeat it, training his eyes on Dean's flushed face as he lightly bit on the hardening nub. Dean whimpered, but the fingers he threaded through Castiel's dark hair pulled him closer instead of off and away. Cas obliged, continuing to bite and lick as Dean's hips began to roll upward involuntarily.

With a low noise in his throat, Cas slid downward the rest of the way to the floor, spreading Dean's knees so that he could kneel between them. He laid a hand on Dean's belt buckle, glancing back up as if to make sure all parties were still on board. Thankfully, everything Dean was feeling seemed to be obvious enough on his face to serve as an answer this time, because the buckle was undone and his pants unbuttoned and unzipped a heartbeat later. Hands at his waist encouraged him to lift his hips, and Cas gripped and pulled both pants and boxers down as far as they would go before leaning in and, without further preamble, swallowing Dean the the root.

Dean threw back his head, a hoarse sound ripping out of his lungs. Breath came no easier as he felt Cas swallow around him, throat muscles rippling, then hollow his cheeks and begin mercilessly working up and down his shaft with lips pursed tight and tongue curling around the underside. When Dean finally managed to pull enough oxygen into his chest to feel reassured that he could stay conscious, he blinked his eyes open and found Cas watching him as he worked, eyes half-lidded, cheeks stained red with excitement and lust.

One exploring hand crept between Dean's legs, slipping over his balls and perineum to circle a finger gently but firmly around his hole. He was slick enough by then that as Cas's fingertip easily slipped inside, stretching and then thrusting in and out, there was an obscenely wet sound accompanying it. This time, it was Castiel who whimpered, though it was muffled around Dean's cock.

"Close…Cas, I'm close," Dean panted, feeling heat throbbing low in his groin. His fingers in Cas's hair tugged uselessly, as shaky as his voice. Thrusting deep with two fingers, Cas simultaneously sucked him all the way back into his throat again, a hungry look in his eyes, and swallowed hard—once, twice. Dean choked on a gasp and saw flashes of white as he came hard, muscles seizing and trembling.

"So perfect," Cas was murmuring when Dean's ears began registering anything beyond white noise. He nuzzled at Dean's stomach, mouthing and nipping gently. Dean hummed, not trusting his own voice, and scrabbled his hands at Cas's shoulders trying to pull him back up; the message seemed to translate, and Cas lifted his mouth for a kiss. The taste of himself on Cas's lips brought the startling thought that, even though he'd just gotten off, his arousal had only abated slightly.

"Wanna see you," he begged, reaching for Cas's shirt buttons. "Please, I need to see you." He couldn't resist ducking his head and running his lips along the side of Cas's neck, thrilling at the intoxicatingly spicy scent of his desire.

Growling, Cas stood, pulling Dean to his feet. "Bedroom," he said, and though it wasn't framed as a question, he paused and waited, allowing Dean to either lead the way or slow things down. Dean was grateful for how, even now, Cas was refusing to take anything for granted, but at the same time, the idea of calling a halt to the proceedings felt laughably unthinkable. Freeing his arms from his loose shirt and slipping two fingers into Cas's belt loops, he pulled their groins together and kissed him again, filthy and wet. The roughness of the pants fabric against the sensitive flesh of his bare cock felt harsh, but the slight prickle of pain somehow began to coax interest back into it.

Not letting go of the loops, Dean toed out of his shoes and shook free of the pants around his ankles, then walked backwards to the foot of the steps before turning and making his way upstairs to his bedroom, Cas a wall of solid heat close behind his back. When they reached the room, Dean had barely turned back to face Cas when he felt strong hands guiding him the rest of the way onto the bed. He sat on the edge and watched, entranced, as Cas made short work of his own clothes, not taking his eyes from Dean's face as he did.

Finally naked, Cas closed the space between them; Dean scooted back toward the pillows as Cas climbed onto the bed after him, crawling over him until he was bracketing Dean's face with his forearms. His breath seemed to catch in his throat as he gazed down, holding Dean's eyes with his own. "Gorgeous," he said, almost whispering. Dean blushed and tried to look away, but Cas caught his chin and wouldn't allow it. "Everything about you is gorgeous," he went on, "and I have no idea what I did to deserve you."

_Did it involve a list on a bar napkin?_ Dean fought a hysterical burst of giggles. "Think I'm the one getting the better end of the bargain, here," he said instead, then prevented Cas from arguing the point by wrapping his legs around his waist and pulling him down and against him. The heat of their bodies pressed together felt like a sudden inferno, and Dean exulted in the blaze. He pulled harder, bucking his hips upward, and Castiel gasped and thrust helplessly in response before quickly shifting his weight to his knees so he could push away and use his hands to press Dean's hip bones down firmly toward the mattress.

"Not this time," he said firmly. "I refuse to rush through this. We have all night. If I had my way…" Cas trailed off as his eyes roamed over Dean's body, seeming as though he was trying to memorize it. He smiled ruefully and shook his head a little. "Hard enough to keep my head around you, you know. You make me feel reckless."

"Not as much as I'd like to, or else you'd be doing something besides staring," Dean goaded him, restless under the scrutiny. He was more than half hard again already, eager for more. Impatiently, he gripped Cas with both his legs and his arms, flipping them so that he was on top. Cas gaped for a moment in surprise, then grinned.

Dean could feel the impressive length of Castiel's cock pressing against his ass, and he rocked back into it, feeling it slide against his crack. For a moment, Cas's eyes rolled up into his head, and then he reached around Dean to pull his cheeks apart and let himself rut more firmly against his entrance. "Condom?" he managed to gasp, and Dean waved toward the bedside table in response.

Reluctantly letting go, Cas gracelessly rummaged in the drawer for the condom, fumbling to get it open. Dean lifted himself up so Cas could see to put it on himself, then hesitated before he dropped back down. Lots of alphas preferred more control during sex, at least at first. "You, uh, want me to…?" He gestured vaguely, unsure.

"I think I like seeing you take charge," Cas said breathlessly, caressing Dean's ass once more. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, sparkling eyes watching Dean without a trace of impatience or irritation about not being in the driver's seat.

Encouraged, Dean reached behind himself and gripped Cas's cock, pressing it to his hole. The lingering traces of the previous heat, along with the fingering Cas had done earlier, meant that he was nowhere near as tight as he might have been otherwise, and the slight burn as the head pushed into him was far preferable than waiting another few minutes for more foreplay and stretching. Dean didn't want to wait another _second._ He groaned deeply at the feel of Cas sliding deeper into him, feeling in his thighs the rumble of Cas's answering groan.

When he was fully seated, he sat for a moment to adjust. The air was hot on his flushed skin; the smells of sweat and pheromones were heavy in his nose and lungs, making him feel intoxicated. Cas was breathing hard, rubbing soothing circles into his hips as he struggled not to move. "God," Dean exhaled. It was _so much._ He couldn't remember ever feeling so overwhelmed by sex before. He had a sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with the person under him, inside of him, than the actual act, but he couldn't think about that right now.

He lifted himself up a few inches, then drove back down hard. The reaction from Cas was incredible; he threw his head back into the pillows on a cry, abdominal muscles jumping visibly. He then moved his hands to grip Dean about the waist, holding him firmly without directing. Dean kept the pace slow, determined to make it last as long as he could, but he kept the thrusts hard, angling his torso so Cas's cock glanced off his prostate with every stroke.

The earlier orgasm had taken the edge off his need to come again so quickly, but he could tell that Cas was in much more dire straits. His neck muscles were cording with effort, and his grip was growing tighter around Dean. "Go ahead and touch me," Dean finally urged him. "Go ahead and come." Cas blinked hazy eyes at him, then wrapped his long fingers around Dean's straining erection and stroked him in a rhythm that matched how Dean was fucking himself down onto him. A handful of strokes later, Dean started to feel the press of Cas's knot forming, and he shuddered, moaning. "Oh, fuck, Cas, _please,_ " he begged.

"Dean!" Castiel hissed, knot suddenly swelling and catching inside Dean's rim. The abrupt pressure pushed Dean over the edge once more, and he spurted over Cas's hand and onto his stomach. He sagged, bracing himself with his hands against Cas's shoulders, barely preventing himself from slumping forward into the mess. Pulses slowly returned to normal, and neither man was in any hurry to move, letting themselves fall back to earth gradually and without urgency.

Finally, Dean lifted his head and sat back a bit, smirking down at Cas. "Did you really bring ice cream as a precaution for sex?"

"I brought ice cream as a delicious dessert," Cas said calmly. "If it happened to also prevent us from ending up in the ER with an embarrassing set of symptoms,well, we shouldn't look that gift horse in the mouth, should we?"

Dean snorted, and through a series of awkward contortions, they managed to maneuver themselves so they could lie on their sides, facing each other. Cas stroked fingers through Dean's drying hair, resting their foreheads together. "You really are incredible," he said quietly. Too tired to do anything but smile, Dean closed his eyes and let contentment pull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That dried pepper rehydrating and covering everything in oil business? We had that happen. Oops; ah, college. My roommate, eating with us, quoted Lisa Simpson, squealing, "I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME!" And that was just with dried bird's eye peppers. Eat responsibly, kids.


	18. Think of All the Friends I've Known

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, barely illuminating the bedroom, when Dean’s internal alarm woke him—an impressive feat, considering the utter bliss of the warm embrace in which he was wrapped, filling his body with contentment. More so than the ease with which he’d woken the day before, this was incontrovertible proof of how ingrained the new waking schedule had become in his mind.

He might have been tempted, even so, to snuggle in deeper, wriggling back against Cas’s chest and letting sleep retake him for another hour. That wasn’t in the cards, though; he’d barely blinked his eyes into focus when the jingle of a cell phone alarm burst into the stillness, and an indignant noise, part growl and part snuffle, rumbled against his upper back. One arm loosened from around his chest, flailing blindly at the noise and eventually silencing it.

Dean smiled to himself in sleepy enjoyment. Truthfully, getting to savor this morning like this hadn’t been something he’d anticipated. When Cas had roused them both from their post-sex stupor the night before by crawling out of bed with a kiss to Dean’s sweaty temple, Dean had assumed it would be the end of their night. He would have been fine with that, really; after all, it wasn’t a weekend night, and they both had to work in the morning. To his surprise, Cas had returned to the bed with a damp towel, had cleaned Dean gently, and then crawled between the sheets with him, mumbling about setting an early alarm so he’d have time to get home and grab a change of clothes in the morning.

Apparently, the sleep zombie gimmick wasn’t unusual, though. Castiel’s transition from sleep to wakefulness was no more smooth today than it had been during their first, unplanned, night together. Dean rolled over to face Cas, and he had to bite back a laugh at the bleary frown of confusion on his face. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he teased, pushing wild locks of hair out of Cas’s eyes and relishing how soft they were against his fingers.

Cas blinked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, which was just too adorable for Dean to resist any more. He leaned forward and stole a kiss from pliant, soft lips, grinning when he felt the arms around him tighten. Cas hummed softly, still not fully awake but at least heading in the right direction, and Dean cupped a hand around his jaw as he pulled back, running his thumb along the line of stubble.

“Coffee sound up your alley?” he suggested, not holding back his chuckle this time when Cas nodded slowly against his hand, lids drooping shut. “I’ll run down and throw some on, so you can take your time.” Disengaging himself from the embrace took a little more persuasion, but then Dean was able to duck into the closet and grab his running shorts and tee before heading to the bathroom and then the kitchen.

The coffee was just beginning to fill the room with its aroma when Cas shuffled through the doorway, redressed in his clothes from the night before. “I thought I heard you say coffee, but then I thought I’d dreamed it,” he explained, zeroing in on the nearly full pot. Dean filled a mug for him and handed it over after adding a splash of milk, remembering Cas’s preference from the last time they’d done this. Cas gulped, heedless of the drink’s temperature, then held it close to his face, inhaling the steam. “You know, you didn’t have to get up. I would have been fine to wait, to have my coffee at home or at the office.”

“Well, I’d have been up anyway,” Dean shrugged. “I’m a morning jogger, especially since it’s so much hotter by the time work’s out.”

“Yes, I see.” Cas seemed to notice Dean’s clothing for the first time, not trying to disguise how his eyes followed the length of Dean’s legs down from the shorts. “Good thinking, that. I’ll admit I probably suffer more than I need to by going out later, but on the occasions when I’ve tried to switch things up, I find my drowsiness is…problematic. On one run, I actually didn’t fully wake up until I’d managed to run for four miles in random directions, and I had no idea where I was when I stopped.” He looked so mystified, even just recalling the incident, that Dean almost felt bad for laughing.

“But I’ve seen you run in the mornings before,” he said when he caught his breath. “Saturday mornings, right?”

“That’s with a group of other runners, which serves the dual purposes of both making sure I don’t snooze through it and of preventing me from trotting off blindly into the woods, never to be seen again.” Cas shook his head ruefully. “But I won’t claim to be the group’s pace leader, or at least not for the first few miles. Honestly, the people leading the group could probably run downtown and straight into City Hall, and I’d follow stumbling along, no questions asked.”

“I’d pay money to see that,” Dean said, smirking. He only drank a few sips of coffee himself, preferring to have it when he got back and cleaned up. Opening the fridge again and grimacing, he ran an eye over the barren shelves. “I do feel bad that I don’t have any bacon, or anything else, to offer you this time. I hadn’t managed to get back out to the grocery store yesterday after all, and I used the last of the pitiful fruit I had left yesterday morning.”

“Dean, don’t apologize. I did sort of invite myself to stay the night, and you’re not obligated to feed me. I’d be out of line to assume you would.”

“Nah, but I do feel bad. The ‘morning after’ breakfast is something I don’t usually screw up,” Dean complained. Then, catching the quirk of Cas’s eyebrow, he flushed. “Wait, that came out weird. Now I sound like a complete slut who does this all the time. What I mean is—”

Cas cut him off with a wave, grinning. “Dean, do you think I’d judge you? _I’m_ the one who brought a dessert last night that was specifically chosen to aid in allowing me to go down on you without giving you a chemical burn on your dick.”

“Well, that was just polite.” Dean winked, though he was still feeling embarrassed.  

“It was a completely transparent declaration of how badly I wanted you,” Cas said, shaking his head. “And if you’re not going to call me a pervert for it, then I have no business thinking badly of you for being a sexual person, either. All I’d ask is, well, without _assuming_ anything, since I know we haven’t exactly discussed it, but, um, I know that I, personally, haven’t been…that is…”

It was remarkable watching Cas, who was usually so eloquent, completely crash and burn. Fortunately, Dean was able to interpret the stammering, having been thinking along similar lines anyway. “Breathe, man,” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder soothingly. “I haven’t, either. No ‘morning after’ breakfasts for anyone else, not since we started this…whatever you’d like to call us. Honestly, not for a little while before that, either, if we’re putting cards on the table.”

Cas smiled in relieved gratitude, reaching to grip Dean’s hand with his own. “You know, I was president of my college debate team.”

“Yeah, but they probably didn’t meet first thing in the mornings,” Dean said fondly.

They didn’t linger very long over the coffee, with too much to do before work. Cas began packing up his containers from the night before, tossing them into the bag he’d brought. They were joking about lingering pepper fumes when Cas accidentally knocked a plastic box from the counter onto the floor, along with some papers that had been nearby. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized, gathering up the mess. “Here’s your…napkin?” The envelope in which Dean had put the bar napkin was on top of the pile, flap open to show the contents. Cas looked intrigued, but he held it out politely.

Dean considered briefly, then pulled out the napkin. “Here, you should see this,” he said. “Remember when we went out the first time, and I told you that I started running and all that as part of a whole self-improvement thing?”

Cas was looking over the list, a slight frown of concentration furrowing his brow as he read. _I wonder if he wears reading glasses,_ Dean mused, then decided that he’d really, really like to see that if he did. “Make a will, play the stock market, get flu shots…Dean, did you do all these things?”

“No, not all of them. This was sort of a brainstorming session, and then I picked the best suggestions, just to start.” He pointed to the circled items. “See, I went with ‘go to the dentist’ and ‘exercise’ at the beginning, then added from there.”

“I see,” Cas nodded, lips curving up on one side. “So, who helped with the list? You said these were suggested.”

“Just a bunch of my friends from the bar,” Dean answered, suddenly feeling a little awkward. He hadn’t talked much about the gang with Cas, and he worried that it looked like he was hiding something. “It’s sort of a weird group of people,” he explained. “Jo, who you met the first night I saw you, and her girlfriend, Meg. And then there’s Ash and Andy, who can be sort of an acquired taste, but we’ve known each other for years. Mostly, we just hang out at the bar, though—more like _Cheers_ than anything else, I guess.”

“I think I remember Jo,” Cas said stiffly. His smile had dropped a bit. “I must admit, I haven’t gone back to that place since that night, when everyone seemed to be coming down on you, demanding apologies from you, even though you were the one who’d been harassed. It made a distinct impression in my mind, even though you’ve defended the owner since then.”

“Yeah, that whole evening was probably an exercise in screwed up communication,” Dean acknowledged. “Let me just say, though, that they weren’t _entirely_ wrong. I mean, nobody deserves to be attacked, but it’s also fair to say that I probably went in looking for a fight, on some level. Ellen knows me well enough to know that, too. A lot of her being mad was mostly frustration.”

Cas was shaking his head, unsatisfied, but he sighed. “I suppose if you ask me to, I’ll give the benefit of the doubt, since you’re close to her, but I don’t like it at all.”

“No, I know that, and I get it,” Dean said. “But I’m not keeping a grudge, even though I’m working hard on the whole ‘positive assertiveness’ thing. Maybe sometime we should…” He hesitated. Part of him really did want to take Cas back to the Roadhouse, to show him off. He was proud of what they were building together. On the other hand, the Dean that hung out drinking with the gang, talking about the stupidest stuff under the sun, might not measure up to the Dean he was working hard to become, the one he'd wanted Cas to see. Would Cas think less of him, viewing him in that light?

Cas seemed to understand the source of the conflict on his face. “If you want me to meet your friends, I’d be happy to, but there’s no pressure,” he said. “Believe me, I’m a master of compartmentalizing. I still maintain connections with some of the more colorful people I met as an activist, and several of my colleagues at work would probably try to have me disbarred if they overheard some of our conversational topics.” He rolled his eyes to the heavens dramatically, and Dean relaxed.

“Reprobate,” he joked, shaking his head.

“Flatterer,” Cas replied with a grin. “And I’ll tell you what. If you want, I can introduce you to some of _my_ friends, so you wouldn’t be the only one dealing with that. Saturday morning, you can come out with the group I mentioned before, my running club.”

Immediately, Dean tensed up, folding his arms over his chest. “Whoa, now. Talked about this before. I’m not going to make a fool of myself in front of a bunch of guys who are, like, serious athletes.”

“Dean, these are guys who have literally watched me fall on my ass in a mud puddle and laughed themselves silly over it,” Cas argued.

“Not helping your case, buddy!”

“No? I was covered in mud, and they helped me up, took a group selfie with me as ‘The Mud King,’ and loaned me extra towels at the end, while telling all the other people just arriving at the park to look out for my butt print on the trail. Do these goofballs sound like people who should intimidate you?” The memory of the experience didn’t seem to bother Cas in the least; he shook his head in amusement. “Honestly, when the endorphins start flowing, it’s impossible to feel too uncomfortable or out of place. Mayor Hanscum joins us a few times a month, and I’ve seen her jogging side-by-side with the most conservative Baptist deacons in town, laughing about the strangest doughnuts they’d eaten. They’d be at each other’s throats under any other circumstances.”

“Mayor Hanscum is a runner?” Dean couldn’t help asking.

The look Cas gave him was unimpressed. “What have I been saying, Dean? A runner is somebody who runs, period.”

Chastised, Dean sighed. “Okay, maybe. I’ll…I’ll check with the guys, see when they’ll be around.” As though it wasn’t a fair bet that the whole group could be at Ellen’s tonight, tomorrow, and probably every night that week. _And if I get the first hint that they’re not gonna be on their best behavior, I’m not bringing Cas anywhere near them._ “And maybe…not making any promises, but, uh, I do have to get used to the idea of running with other people before the race, right?”

Cas nodded, beaming. “There are several races that go through that park, too, and you can get plenty of advice from others who’ve done them.” Taking Dean’s hand, he pulled him in for a kiss. “Full disclosure? While I do think this’ll be great for your confidence, as well as a lot of fun, mostly I just want to show you off. Still finding it hard to believe I didn’t dream you up somehow.”

Another kiss was a great excuse not to have to come up with a response to that.

\---

“So, like, hypothetically, if the government were to make somebody disappear, could a message written beforehand, mailed to a lawyer in case of a situation like that, work as a contract and get the lawyer on board to defend their case?”

“Andy,” Dean groaned, putting his face in his palms. Cas was trying to parse the sentence, keeping a politely serious expression on his face as he considered. Ash, meanwhile, lifted a flattened palm and smacked Andy in the back of the head.

“Dude, think it through,” he said. “Who runs the postal service? That letter’s never going to be delivered.” Andy’s mouth formed an “o” of realization, and Ash leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. “Gotta set it up before that, anyway. Anticipate, not just react. I’ve been telling you this for years, man.”

“I take it you’ve already got an attorney on retainer, then?” Cas said, trying to follow the strange conversational thread.

“...sure, an attorney. Let’s go with that.”

Dean aimed a kick at Ash under the table, which missed, Ash having tucked his legs underneath himself on the bench seat of the booth. The impact of the kick echoed with a loud thud against the wood, and Jo glanced over from the bar with a frown. Dean shook his head at her, and she turned back to the patron she was serving.

“Well, if we’re done talking shop, if that’s what that was supposed to be, I’ve got more interesting subjects in mind,” Meg purred, rocking onto the back legs of the chair she’d pulled to the end of the table. Dean suppressed another groan. This was going _exactly_ how he’d worried it would, no matter how much his friends had protested that they just wanted to see “the guy who got Dean eating vegetables.”

“Hey, why don’t I go get us another round?” he said, sliding out of the booth abruptly. Alcohol might strip away even the shreds of restraint any of the group might still be feeling, but it might also erase some of the tension. “Oh, Cas, you should tell them about that cocktail you told me about, the one with the serrano peppers and the mint!” He broke for the counter, hearing Cas start describing the weird drink behind him.

“I heard that,” Jo said when he got there. “You keep your hipster drink concoctions out of here, Dean. I’m still recovering from the run on all the stupid mojito variations you guys insisted on trying last summer. ‘Tomatillo-jito,’ my ass.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean said, not at all sorry. Not that he’d particularly enjoyed that version, but the name had made it worth the try. “Do me a favor, though, and mix up something to knock Andy down a little before he starts trying to hire my boyfriend to sue Congress?”

“No such drink exists,” Jo answered. “And it’s officially ‘boyfriend’ now?” She started throwing together a tray of shots, trying to catch glimpses of the table over Dean’s shoulder.

“Well, I mean, not that we’ve used the word, per se,” Dean hedged. “But it’s just him for me, and me for him. So…yeah.” He felt the grin on his face, unable to hide it.

“Good on ya,” Jo said approvingly. “Here, on me.” Two more shot glasses were slammed onto her tray, quickly filled with a couple of different liqueurs, then topped with whipped cream. “Blow Jobs for the happy couple!” she yelled, waving the can. Meg hooted loudly in response, and Dean tried not to whimper. When he looked at Cas, though, he saw nothing but laughter and a cheerful glow on his face, and Dean threw up his hands. His friends were who they were, and he didn’t even really _want_ them to be any different.

“Fine, but you better remember this when your birthday rolls around next month, Joanna,” he growled halfheartedly as they walked back to the booth.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said dismissively. “Now let’s see what your _boyfriend_ is made of!”

(Really, she had nobody to blame but herself when the trail of melted whipped cream that escaped from the corner of Cas’s mouth to run suggestively along his jaw proved too much for Dean to resist, and the subsequent groping under the table led to the two of them calling it a night not long after that.)

\---

“Gad said he thought Castiel was making you up, but I still had faith,” the man jogging alongside Dean puffed good-naturedly. “Of course, I thought you were probably some weird recluse, or maybe a dog in a trenchcoat.”

“It’s three dogs in a trenchcoat,” interjected the young woman running behind them. “Know your memes, Gramps.”

“Lord, save us from youngsters who know everything,” the man said, looking back at her witheringly. “Too plugged in, I say. Can’t even run without your GPS watch beeping at you every mile.”

“Keep it up, and you can calculate your own split times, maybe with the position of the sun,” she shot back. The banter between them was completely playful; Dean could tell they were both having fun. “I’m Krissy, by the way,” she added to Dean. “Didn’t get a chance to say hi back at the start. You’re the guy with Castiel?”

“Dean,” he nodded. They were moving easily enough that he didn’t struggle to talk, though he worried that they were taking it easy on him. Some of the group had taken off at a much faster trot, but there were some folks moving even more slowly than the knot of runners around him. Cas was somewhere just ahead of him, but not by much, talking with an older man with a scraggly beard.

Krissy saw his glance forward. “That’s Fergus, running with him. Rival lawyer, but they have a firm rule against arguing cases while running. Last time it happened, they kept going faster and faster the more they debated, and they both wound up useless for days after that.”

Dean snickered, imagining it. “I’d say I’ll keep that in mind, but no way could I do anything with it. I’m just a slowpoke. He could run circles around me.”

“If you’re a slowpoke, what am I?” the man beside him said—Zeke, Dean remembered him saying his name was. “You’re not even breathing hard, but this is the top end of my happy pace. Of course, I can get pretty far like this, but that’s mostly stubbornness. Hell, I’m in no hurry, anyway.”

It was a reasonable attitude, Dean decided. Of course, he wanted to be reasonably fast, and he was willing to put forth some effort to get there, but one thing he figured he definitely had in spades was stubborn will, when he needed it.  

“So, how far _can_ you get?” he asked, out of curiosity.

“Longest run? I did a fifty-miler, few years back,” Zeke said. “Took me a little less than eleven hours.”

Oh. Well, maybe Dean wasn’t _that_ stubborn.

“Don’t judge us by him,” Krissy put in. “He’s the only one of us crazy enough to do anything like that, these days. There were a couple of other ultra-nuts a few years ago, but most of us are just casual runners. Personally, I only race when they have cool tee-shirts.”

“And Cas?” Dean felt like he was owed a little gossip, since he’d gone through the bar fiasco.

“Depends on his mood,” Zeke said, shrugging.

“Depends on who else is toeing up to the start,” said a woman’s voice behind them. Dean turned his head, seeing a curly-haired brunette catching up to them. Her eyes glittered mischievously. “Remember Bartholomew? He stopped coming to group runs, but he still does the occasional race, and Castiel can’t help himself.”

“Oh, my God! Yes! Remember the Firecracker last year?” Krissy gasped, flailing a hand. “You’d have thought an Olympic medal was on the line! I think Bart actually puked.”

“Who won?” Dean was fascinated, and a little turned on, by the mental picture he was creating.

“Some nineteen-year old guy from State.” The woman laughed at Dean’s crestfallen look. “That’s the way it always works, but it’ll never stop these guys from pitting themselves against boys still dewy with youth. But everybody’s having fun! You going to join us for coffee afterward?”

“We’re planning on it,” Cas said, falling back to rejoin Dean. He glanced at Dean in question, and Dean nodded, making Cas grin. “Doing okay, then? I hope you’re not back here telling him horrible stories, trying to scare him off.”

Krissy smirked. “Well, I did explain to him why you should never shake hands with a runner wearing only one sock.” Dean frowned, confused, and Cas nearly choked.

“She’s kidding,” Zeke assured Cas, then leaned his head toward Dean. “We’re always very careful these days to make sure there’s at least one public bathroom near the route, believe me.” He wrinkled his nose, and Dean, catching on, almost tripped as he laughed.

Later, sitting around the coffee shop with the other group members, Dean decided Cas was correct about those endorphins. Everybody in the club was blissed out on brain chemicals that had them feeling some weird mixture of completely relaxed and totally energized. The brunette woman, Hannah, got up for more coffee, followed immediately by a joking demand for refills all around. Feeling happily at home, Dean got up to help; he could feel Cas’s warm gaze follow him, and he turned to wink.

“He’s thrilled you came,” Hannah murmured with a smile. “You thinking of coming back next week?”

“Maybe I will,” Dean said. He thought he probably would.

\---

“In fairness, Bart is an ass,” Cas said. It was late Saturday night, and he and Dean were curled up in Castiel’s bed, eyelids drooping slightly in the aftermath of what had been a completely fantastic and satisfying end to a perfect evening. They just kept getting better at this, Dean thought. Frankly, the discovery of that warm spot behind Cas’s ear, where a teasing touch would make goosebumps erupt over his entire body, had been a pinnacle achievement and nearly enough to make the night noteworthy by itself.

“He’s your runner nemesis,” Dean teased. “Do normal people even have nemeses?”

“Am I normal? I thought we decided that would be boring,” Cas said. He raked his fingernails lightly down Dean’s spine, inducing shivers.

“Definitely not normal,” Dean agreed. “But you’ll have to point him out, if he’s at the race I’m doing. Does he look like a douchebag?”

“Can I please not have to think about Bartholomew when I’m in bed with you?” Cas complained. Dean laughed, turning his face toward Cas’s shoulder to press a kiss against it.

“Fair point,” he said. “Want me to put your mind back on nicer things?” The days where Dean could guarantee a successful round two were years in the past, but he was feeling optimistic, based on the subtle shifting of Cas’s hips against his own.

“Mmmm, that sounds nice.” The low rumble of that deep voice did _things_ to Dean. As he let his fingers play across Cas’s chest, brushing past his nipples almost incidentally, Dean felt more than heard the rumble grow, vibrating against his own chest. He fought the urge to smirk. “Did you have some particular idea in mind?”

“Well,” Dean said slowly, “I thought…maybe…” He let his fingers stray lower, circling around Cas’s navel. “If you were up for it…” Pausing with his hand just north of where he now definitely felt renewed interest taking shape, he glanced up at Castiel’s face. “I could make us some popcorn? You hungry?”

“Dean, you insufferable—!” Without warning, Cas gripped him firmly about the shoulders and pushed back against the mattress. Dean howled with laughter as a flurry of tickles assaulted him under his arms and along his ribs, making him beg for mercy. He was still giggling when Cas dropped on top of him, shaking with his own chuckles as he ran more gentle hands over the places he’d attacked.

“Well, if you don’t like my ideas, you could just say so,” Dean couldn’t help joking, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Or I could just show you a better idea,” Cas proposed. A moment later, his head was slipping under the sheet. Tight, wet heat enveloped Dean’s cock, still slightly sensitive from their earlier fun, and suddenly teasing was the furthest thing from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the serrano and mint cocktail is called a "Sweaty Hipster."
> 
> Homestretch, folks!


	19. Running Down a Dream

“What’s so funny?” Castiel said, raising an eyebrow as they jogged lightly down the street. They were moving at an extremely easy pace, just warming up their muscles. The silence as they ran had been comfortable, disturbed only by the sound of footfalls and the light breeze, when Dean had suddenly huffed a laugh.

“Just thinking,” Dean replied. “If we were in some sort of rom-com story, this would feel like the big climactic part, where everything’s almost resolved, but stuff looks like it’ll fall apart at the last minute. Big race day, something’s got to happen, right?” He waved hand dramatically, widening his eyes in mock worry.

Cas made a thoughtful noise. “We’ll have to make extra certain that all the pins on your race number are fully closed, or else we’d just be tempting fate to make you fall on one and stab yourself. Very painful way to go, safety pin stabbing. Takes years to bleed out. At least you’d have time to get your affairs in order.”

They laughed together then, making their way down the road. “So, we’ll do the safety pin check, and you already prevented me from the apparently devastating mistake of wearing the official race shirt for the actual race. Still not sure I get that one,” Dean said.

Cas shrugged. “It’s part superstition, part practicality. I mean, it doesn’t matter so much for a 5K, not unless you’re planning to sprint for the win the entire way, but generally speaking, it’s a bad idea to run in cotton. If you don’t know why, just go look at some marathon photos, particularly of the middle to back-of-the-pack men, and check their chests. The combination of wet fabric and sensitive nipples, rubbing together over an extended period of time?” He shuddered.

“Ouch.”

“And the blood can be difficult to clean out, as well,” Cas added pragmatically. “So it’s better to use other fabrics that don’t absorb the sweat.”

“And this has nothing to do with you liking the sight of me in your clothes, right?” Dean eyed his boyfriend skeptically, corners of his lips twitching. He hadn’t missed the way Cas’s eyes had dragged over his chest when he’d come out of the bedroom in the borrowed running shirt that morning.

“Well, not _originally,”_ Cas admitted. “But there is also the other part, where I’d rather not have you wince when I touch your chest for the next week.” He winked and bumped shoulders with Dean.

“Fair point. Score one for practicality. I never pegged you for superstitious, though,” Dean said.

“‘There is superstition in avoiding superstition,’ Francis Bacon once said,” sighed Cas. “Probably best and easiest just to go along with the ones that don’t hurt anybody. Sports turn almost everyone a little superstitious. The socks you wear when you win today become tomorrow’s lucky footwear.”

“And wearing the race shirt before I finish the race means something bad might happen before I do,” Dean finished, recalling what Cas had said earlier.

“It’s also a pretty good sign that you’re new enough to racing that you haven’t picked up any weird beliefs yet,” Cas said, teasing.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be a big leap for anybody to guess.” Dean was trying, damn it, but as helpful as it was to have Cas cheerleading him along, he couldn’t quite silence the voice in his head telling him that this was going to be a fiasco, that he’d look like an idiot lining up with all the other runners.

“Trust me, you more than look like you belong,” Cas reassured Dean, studying him appreciatively. “Honestly, if I’d never met you, I’d assume you were a contender for an age-group medal, just based on appearance. You have good running form, your legs are…well.” He cleared his throat, pulling his eyes back to the pavement in front of him. “And, regardless of what you might be feeling, you carry yourself with confidence. I’d be a little intimidated, anyway.”

“Hmmm,” Dean said. The closer they got to the park, the harder that confidence was trying to escape from him. He was beginning to see crowds of people, some jogging to warm up and some standing in groups, chatting. For what was supposed to be a “small race,” it looked pretty darn crowded, and he began to feel a little lost.

“Dean,” Cas said, cautioning. He rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder; Dean hadn’t realized that he’d stopped running. “There’s still plenty of time before the race, since you registered ahead of time. Lots of those people are waiting to sign up still. Why don’t we go find a quiet spot and get you stretched, now that you’ve warmed up?”

Dean let Cas steer him to a bench beside a playground, a little distance apart from the crowd of runners, and then guide him through some standing stretches. “Tell me something else,” he begged, not even trying to disguise the nerves. “What else is there to know about all this business? Superstitions, weird rituals, secret handshakes?”

“Oh, all our insider information?” Cas said. “Well, let me think.” He gestured for Dean to lift his foot to the top of the bench, a hand at his back helping him to keep his balance. “Okay, look at those young men over there, warming up. Which one do you think is the fastest?”

“What?” Dean gave Cas a bewildered look before staring at the indicated people. “Uh…well, the one in the white shirt looks pretty wiry. Maybe him, since the other guys might have a little more muscle mass to carry?  Or, wait, the Asian guy is wearing a track team shirt. Him, he’s the fastest.”

“Good guesses. Either of them could be correct. I’d have picked the one in the red shirt, myself. Look at his shoes.”

“Pretty difficult not to,” Dean said, “but I wasn’t going to be _rude.”_ The running shoes were visible at a distance, clashing colors of lime green and violently angry pink.

“Here’s a rule of thumb that often holds true: the uglier the shoes, the more serious the runner.” Dean looked at Cas with such narrow-eyed skepticism that Cas laughed out loud. “No, it’s true! Frequently, anyway. And not just the colors—they’ll be in those barefoot shoes, or maybe the ones with the enormously thick soles that look like orthopedics gone horribly wrong. And they pay hundreds of dollars for them.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Not a bit,” Cas said, holding up a palm. “Wait and see if I’m right. Of course, local races like these, every once in a while you’ll have a winner with wrinkles and age spots, running in regular gym shoes he’s probably had for thirty years, and it makes the other guys just _fume.”_

“Well, sure,” Dean chuckled, shrugging.  “Okay, what else?”

Cas obliged, keeping Dean as distracted and relaxed as he could, right up until ten minutes before the race start. When the announcement to line up came, they walked together toward the start. As they approached, Dean started to get overwhelmed for a different reason; with all the warming up and perspiring everybody had been doing, the tight crowd was a dizzying mass of scents. Toward the front of the line-up, the shift toward aggressive pheromones was almost overpowering, particularly from the alphas, who were the clear majority in that vicinity.

“Maybe I should start further back,” Dean muttered, looking around uncomfortably. A few of the runners had obviously noticed his scent, too, though their reactions seemed to be more assessing than outright dominating. He recalled Cas saying that he had looked like he fit in, and he figured that was the reason; the nervousness underlying his own scent probably hadn’t cut through the miasma yet. These runners smelled almost _hungry._

“Trust me, this is where you should start,” Cas was saying, distracted as he scanned the crowd. “You don’t want to get trapped behind walkers or slower joggers. This is the right position for your pace.” Turning, he saw the look that must have been obvious on Dean’s face. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t think of…it’s race adrenaline, Dean. It’s the same chemical mix that provokes fight or flight reflexes.”

Dean knew that. It didn’t make it any easier to get his brain to stop panicking. The press of the crowd was shoulder to shoulder, and he could barely move.

“Dean, here.” Cas stepped in front of Dean, right against his chest, and put a gentle hand on the back of Dean’s neck. “Scent me,” he said, encouraging but not pulling. Dean’s nerves twitched at the idea of that sort of intimacy in such a crowded place, but his head was spinning enough that he gave up on further thought. Letting Cas pull his face into the crook of his neck, Dean breathed in all the comforting pheromones he’d come to know so well—peace, calm, security, affection…home _. Love._  

Those last ones were new.

Dean didn’t lift his head, not wanting to betray his reaction. He inhaled more deeply, chasing every bit of the scent he could find. Need, trust, respect, _mate._ His eyes abruptly filled with tears, and he quivered, filled with awe and emotion, as a whirlwind of realization hit him with the force of a blow.

“Dean?” Cas said, obviously noticing the sudden shift. “Are you—”

“ _Runners take your mark!”_

“You better get to the side,” Dean managed to say, voice strained with effort. He stepped back and gave Cas a soft push toward the edge of the crowd. “I’ll see you at the end.”

“Dean…”

_“Get set…”_

“Wish me luck!”

“Go kill it!” Exhaling hard as he retreated, Cas gave him a thumbs-up and a wide grin.

_“GO!”_

\---

The thing about a 5K race is that it really can go by very quickly. Within two minutes, the pack had spread out considerably, and Dean was no longer enveloped in the chemical mix that had made thinking rationally such an impossible task. On the other hand, the excitement of the group had pulled him along at a much faster pace than he had intended, despite the warnings Cas and the other members of the running club had given him about that precise possibility.

So he didn’t really have as much time as he might have wished to think about what he’d discovered in the moments before the race began. It would have been too hard to think, anyway, since he was running harder than he’d ever run.

 _Cas smells like my mate. I_ want _Cas as my mate._

White Shirt, Track Team Guy, and Fugly Shoes were all already completely out of sight by the first turn, but there was a small group of guys keeping pace with Dean, passing and being passed by each other, and he spontaneously decided that they were his new archrivals. It helped that, with the advantage of a clearer head, he could now tell that at least one of them was another omega. He couldn’t tell which one, with the way they were all pumping their arms and driving their legs, but he wasn’t alone. That helped a lot, reassuring him that he wasn’t so out of place after all.

By the end of the first mile, his lungs were whistling as he panted. He definitely would have slowed the pace and fallen back, except that just as he was considering it, he realized they were running past the point where that douchebag had accosted him the day he’d finally kissed Cas. The memory of the fear he’d felt over the threatened assault filled him with anger, and he pushed past the tiredness.

Another half-mile. Desperately attempting to ignore a potential stitch growing in his ribs, Dean noticed a tiny little girl waiting by the path, squealing and clapping her hands. One of the guys running near him pumped a fist in the air, and she shrieked, “Run, Daddy!” The man found his second wind, and, thrilling in secondhand encouragement, Dean found one, too. _I could actually have pups with Cas someday. They could come to watch us race, just like that._

There was a water stop at the midpoint of the race. Dean didn’t particularly feel like he needed a drink, but he appreciated the screaming of the high school spirit squad working as volunteers. He waved at them, feeling like a celebrity as they cheered for the number printed on his race bib.

 _Hill…there’s that hill around here, I remember._ He knew he was running low on usable oxygen, because thinking was getting harder. Somebody had used chalk to write “UP ON YOUR TOES! TIME TO CLIMB!” on the path, and he obeyed, feeling a little gratified as he passed a couple of people on the way up.

“Hate…hills…hate…hills…” chanted the guy beside him.

“Aw…don’t be like…that,” Dean puffed. “We got this!” He thought it was the little girl’s dad complaining, but he didn’t have the spare energy to turn his head and check. Whoever he was, he didn’t reply, but he made a sort of thankful-sounding grunt in acknowledgement. _Okay, interpreting the meaning of grunts is definitely a sign of impending physical breakdown_ , Dean thought, but he couldn’t waste energy dwelling on that, either. His focus was purely on moving forward to the end, toward Cas, as fast as he could force himself to go.

Down the hill, feet thudding, the crowd of spectators was getting a little thicker. _Gonna see Cas soon. God, I love him. I…really love him._ The words came with an amazing flash of clarity, and it burst on him the same way that fireworks now seemed to be bursting along the sides of his field of vision—which, yeah, was probably a bad sign, but he could actually see the finish line at that point, so he decided to let it go. He could let a lot of things go, now that his focus was so limited to breathing, working his muscles, and getting his arms around and his lips pressed against Castiel. He could let go of his anxiousness, his self-doubt, his fears about being too much like Dad. He was nothing but pumping blood, the slap of rubber soles on the ground, and a weirdly muffled ringing in his ears.

His mouth was stretched open and wide, and he probably looked like a crazy person. He didn’t particularly care. His group of archrivals was smaller now, just him and a couple other guys; the man with the bald spot who’d been in front of him for almost the whole second half was dropping his head in an apparent last-ditch push for the finish line. _Fuck that, you’re mine,_ Dean’s brain said, and the rest of him deliriously howled in agreement.

It was ridiculous, since they were far behind the actual winners of the race (who by now were drinking celebratory Gatorades and finishing their cool-down stretches), but Dean ended his first race at a hell-bent sprint for the end, neck and neck with, but _finally_ passing, some guy who probably taught geometry to middle schoolers and ate cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons—valid life choices, really, and Dean should possibly get the guy’s number and buy him a beer sometime, because he was _definitely_ part of the reason why Dean was crossing the finish line of his first 5K about nine minutes faster than he thought he could, red-faced and probably about to puke.

Oh, more than probably. Oh, God.

“You _did_ it! Dean!” That was Cas, or maybe an angel of some kind, because humans probably didn’t shimmer like that. Dean’s ears were still ringing, too, which…was less important than getting prone, _right now._ He stumbled to the grass and made that happen.

Castiel’s face hovered over his, beaming. “Amazing! I never expected you to…are you all right?”

“Love you, Angel,” Dean said. Cas tilted his head a little, looking confused, so maybe that hadn’t come out as intelligibly as it had sounded in his own head. He tried again, slower. “I _love_ you.” This time, Cas’s eyes blew wide, and his jaw dropped. Dean had a moment to wonder if he’d been speaking in foreign tongues or something, and then Cas was surging down toward him and kissing the remaining breath from his lungs.

Dean batted a hand feebly at Cas’s chest, not sure what he was trying to accomplish by the effort.

Cas pulled up then, coming back to sudden awareness of where they were and of Dean’s current position. Without losing the smile that had taken over his entire face, he reached for Dean’s hands to haul him upward. “Come on, let’s get you something to drink. You can’t tell me you love me and then end up dead of dehydration. Nobody would buy tickets to that movie! Here, can you stand?”

Dean did his best, wobbling on legs that threatened mutiny. He felt light-headed, giddy, floating. Cas beamed approval. Then the world shifted slightly, which was concerning, and Cas seemed slightly alarmed by whatever Dean’s face was revealing. Cas was saying something, a question that sounded a little like “Get bent?” and then Dean was back on the ground, and it all got a little bit gray after that.

\---

“I can’t _believe_ you!”

“I said I was sorry,” Dean said again, taking advantage of the fact that this was a phone conversation to make a face that Sam couldn’t see. Cas, curled next to him in the bed, elbowed him in the ribs, but he was smirking as he did it.

“And I don’t buy that. If I hadn’t seen Cas’s picture of you on Instagram, how long would you have waited to tell me, anyway? You ran a race, Dean! That’s an awesome thing! And you didn’t even tell me you were doing it!”

“Hey, I knew he was posting the picture. He asked me first. Not like you caught me out or anything.” Dean had been relieved that the photo Cas took had been in the moments before he crossed the finish line, when he simply looked as though he was running hard. After the fact, Cas had been far too occupied to consider taking pictures.

“Whatever! I should have been there to cheer for you. And third place in your age group!”

“There were only eight of us,” Dean mumbled. The little medal he’d gotten was only about the size of a silver dollar, hanging on a cheap orange ribbon, and he could probably have bought something similar at the discount store. He’d stuffed it in his pocket after the awards ceremony, but now it sat casually on his bedside table, and he couldn’t stop glancing at it, feeling warm at the sight.

“You know, you’re not required to tell anybody that part,” Cas whispered, rubbing a hand idly along his leg. Dean shrugged.

“Who cares? The picture looked amazing. You should get that printed and framed.”

“Yeah, okay, Sammy. Hey, look, my roast is finished! Gotta go, talk to you later.” Dean tapped the “end call” button over the sound of protests. Cas huffed at him chidingly. “I’ll call him back tomorrow,” Dean promised. “Tired now.”

“Well, you should be. So we’re not telling Sam how I had to carry you to the med tent?” Cas wasn’t upset; apparently, running so hard you wound up needing medical assessment was actually a macabre badge of honor among some runners, so long as you didn’t actually do yourself any real or lasting injury. Dean’s big mistake had been stopping too suddenly, causing the elevated blood pressure from his quickly pumping heart to drop too quickly. The EMTs had just put him on a cot, elevated his legs, and kept an eye on him, and he recovered faster than he’d expected.

“Nah, he doesn’t need to know,” Dean affirmed. He snuggled closer to Cas, fully availing himself of the excuse of exhaustion to let himself be held.

“He’s not wrong, though. You were amazing,” Cas said. His voice was so proud, it almost made Dean squirm. “Seeing you sprint like that…I had no idea. You surprise me, every time I think I know what you’ll do, or what you’re capable of doing. What was it that tripped your competitive switch like that?”

The feel of Castiel’s embrace, the pleased and satisfied scent of him surrounding Dean, and the after-effects of the eventful day had Dean boneless and almost purring with lazy contentment. And then there was the biggest thing on his mind, from which his collapse, and then his prize, had temporarily drawn attention. Now, with the adrenaline abated and his heart rate under control, he felt a little more hesitant about coming out and saying it.

Turning in Cas’s arms, he buried his face against his neck for the second time that day. Cas squeezed him in response, running a hand over his back. Just as before, Dean drifted on a wave of happiness, devotion, love, mate, and home. He couldn’t fight the grin that curled his lips against the warmth of Cas’s skin.

“Was something you told me before the race,” he said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss under Cas’s ear.

“I told you…to ‘kill it’? Dean, that’s just an expression. I didn’t mean for you to literally try to commit suicide via running.”

“Not that,” Dean said. He wanted to laugh; joy was bubbling up in him, and he fought hard to keep it down for the moment. “Not something you said with words, out loud.”

“Oh?” Cas sounded thoughtful. He traced his hand upwards and through Dean’s hair, pressing him the tiniest bit more firmly against his neck for a moment before he froze. “Oh,” he said.

“Mmm-hmm,” Dean hummed. The beginning of comprehension had sent a flicker of panic through Cas’s scent; Dean didn’t intend to let it grow. “Believe me, I could have been running all by myself, and I would have gone just as fast. Can’t just let me in on something like that and send me off, _not_ expecting me to come rocketing back.”

Cas’s hand began stroking Dean’s scalp again, far too tentatively for Dean’s tastes. “So…Dean, please tell me. What do I smell like to you? I think…I need you to use real words.”

That bubble of joy was going to strangle Dean if he didn’t get to let it out soon. “You smell like rest, and comfort, and cozy Sunday mornings,” he began, nuzzling under Cas’s jaw. “You smell like safety and protection, but also spicy, like excitement.”

“And peppers,” Cas murmured.

“And peppers,” Dean agreed. He pulled himself up higher, cradling Castiel’s jaw in his hand and planting tiny kisses on his cheekbone. “And you smell like happiness, and honesty, and a whole bunch of stuff I’d never be able to pick out or name, but which add up to something I never knew I was missing.”

“I’m starting to sound like a Yankee Candle store,” Cas said, a little too breathlessly to make the joke convincing.

“Shut up, you try it. Anyway, we’re having a moment,” Dean scolded, then started kissing down the other side of Cas’s jaw.

“We are,” Cas said quietly, swallowing.

Dean hummed again, pushing himself on top of Cas and sitting astride his legs to reach the far side of his throat. “Haven’t gotten to the best part yet,” he said. “On top of all those things, see, you also smell like love. Which is a good thing, since, if I didn’t just hallucinate it in all that post-race weirdness, I believe I already told you that I love you, too.”

Cas had his hands on Dean’s hips now, rubbing circles into the skin where his shirt had ridden up. “You did,” he confirmed in a thickening voice.

“Good.” Dean let his teeth barely scrape over flesh, feeling goosebumps form under his fingertips. “We’re on the same page, then. Which makes sense, because mostly…you smell like _mine.”_

Cas’s breath caught, and then he was grabbing at Dean, gripping him, lifting him to meet his eyes, the deep blue practically glowing with intensity. His mouth opened and shut as he tried to speak, but words were evidently not available at the moment. Dean didn’t need them, though, not when the question was hanging so obviously between them.

“I want that,” he said, as simply as he could. “I’m not saying we have to do anything tonight, right this minute, but…I want that. I want _you._ Today, tomorrow, next month, next year, whenever. If you want me as your mate…” _And, God help me, in this moment I will_ not _let my dad’s voice tell me why you shouldn’t!_ “...then I’m glad, because I sure as hell want you to be mine.”

The fire in Castiel’s eyes ignited. He was heat and energy and explosive need, pulling Dean against him and rolling them over. His lips fell onto Dean’s, claiming and consuming; his hands were everywhere, all at once, yet somehow managing to be reverent rather than forceful. In the maelstrom of it all, Dean in some way knew that if he were to cry halt, even then would Cas pull back out of respect for his desires. No part of him even considered doing it.

It was sort of unfair, he thought, that Cas was still fully dressed, while he hadn’t bothered to put on more than his boxers and a tee-shirt after the shower he’d taken when they’d arrived back at his place. He yanked at the bottom of Cas’s shirt, trying to communicate the problem without having to pull away from the kiss to actually speak; several agonizing moments later, Cas finally seemed to understand, and the shirt was quickly removed, followed by Dean’s. The rest of their clothing vanished in similar fashion, though by then Dean’s mind was in such a frenzy that he couldn’t have explained how it had happened.

“Dean, I don’t want to rush,” Cas panted into his mouth. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right, we can wait as long as you need.”

“Or you,” Dean breathed. “I mean, you want to be sure.” His hips rolled up without conscious effort, thrusting against Cas and causing them both to moan.

“I _am_ sure,” Cas sighed. “But you…you don’t need to rush into anything just because of my scent. I don’t want to make you feel pressured!” He lifted his hips slightly, just enough to slide a hand between them and grip both their shafts, stroking firmly.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Dean groaned. “No, but…I’m not…not pressured…shit! Wait!” He used his knees to grip Cas about the hips, and then rolled them again. (The edge of the bed loomed dangerously close; he made note of that, just in case Cas was less cognizant and tried to roll them a third time. There had already been more than enough unexpected crashing to the ground going on around here lately, he thought.) Cas looked halfway to wrecked, but he braced himself against Dean’s chest, trying to calm his breathing as he waited. “Look,” Dean finally said. “Cards on the table. Are you hesitating on all this for your own concerns or out of concern for me?”

“Well,” Cas said, frowning, “for you. Dean, you know I was half in love with you by the time you came to fix my car, and I’ve only fallen more for you since then. I can’t see my feelings on that changing, ever. But that’s me, and my convictions shouldn’t be yours.”

Dean let his forehead drop onto Cas’s chest, chuckling dryly. “Okay, well, I’m doing the same thing, only reversed. Cas, I have absolutely _zero_ doubts about you, from my own perspective, but…well, part of me just thinks that if I let us move too fast, you’ll regret being too hasty later, once your head clears.”

“You think my head isn’t clear?” Cas sighed. “Dean, I’ve been accused of many things, but it’s been a very long time since acting rashly was one of them.”

Dean blew out a breath, sliding his hand lovingly over Castiel’s ribs. “So what does it say, if we’re both holding back, even if we’re both sure we want the same thing, because we’re worried the other one of us isn’t ready yet?”

“Maybe something as simple and logical as this: that we should probably do the smart thing and actually _talk_ about this before doing it.” Humor had found its way back into Cas’s voice, and Dean lifted his head to squint at him.

“What, are you trying to suggest that it might be better to discuss major life choices rather than just jumping right in?” Dean said. A funny thought struck him. “You know, that sort of sounds like it would be the _grown-up_ choice, wouldn’t it?”

Cas caught on. “And since that’s been the running theme lately, it seems appropriate to stick with it now.” They grinned at each other, matching twinkles in their eyes.

“Just one thing,” Dean said, biting his lip and glancing away awkwardly.

“Mmm? What’s that?”

“Think we could talk about it…later? Because I don’t know about you, but I’d kind of like to finish what we’re doing here, now that all that’s decided.”

“Later. Definitely.” Cas quickly nodded, lifting his chin to press his lips to Dean’s.

They moved together with less urgency now, though with no less heat. Cas’s hands moved back to Dean’s hips, encouraging him into a rolling rhythm that had them both shuddering. On any other night, at any other time, it would have been a deliciously sultry scene, but having had a taste of something more, Dean eventually couldn’t help himself. Leaning down so that his lips were brushing the shell Cas’s ear, he whispered, “Hey, alpha. Why don’t you give me a little pre-taste of what it’ll be like? Show me how much you want me to be _yours.”_

Cas growled, and Dean didn’t have to feign any part of the shiver that swept over him.

He barely had a chance to roll himself off Cas before he was being flipped onto his stomach, having his hips pulled back and up. He had the fleeting thought that he’d pushed hard enough that Cas would simply drive his cock right in, but when he felt his cheeks gripped and pulled apart, there was hot breath and the flat of Cas’s tongue against his hole instead. Dean choked on an inhale, then cried out as Cas licked into him mercilessly, lapping around his entrance as though the world would end if he stopped.

Just when Dean thought he’d lose his mind completely, slick running down his thighs faster than Cas could keep up, he felt a finger slide into him, then two. Cas panted hard against his ass cheek, his opposite hand trembling where it gripped him. “ _Mine,”_ he gasped, thrusting his fingers deep as he then hastily grabbed for a condom from the bedside table with the free hand.

“Yes,” Dean managed to hiss, rocking back and trying to take even more. “Please!” He couldn’t help the distressed noise he made when Cas pulled back, then, needing both hands to quickly roll the condom onto his erection. Using the extra slick on his fingers as an added coat of lube, he didn’t hesitate again before lining himself up and thrusting home.

Dean’s fingers scrabbled at the blankets, and he couldn’t begin to hold back the gasps and punched-out noises that burst from his throat with every hard snap of Cas’s hips against his ass. A hand slipped around his waist, and Cas gripped his dripping length, pumping it with the same unforgiving intensity with which he was fucking into him, and Dean almost howled. He came hard, streaks of white covering the blanket under him.

Cas wasn’t done yet. Wrapping an arm around Dean’s chest, he pulled Dean up and into his lap, back firmly against his chest. Holding him tightly, Cas bucked hard up into him, seeking friction against his forming knot; the arm around Dean’s chest stroked over him, tugging at his nipples. Dean felt the rough pull of Cas’s tongue along his neck, and he trembled when he realized Cas was tasting the spot where a bond mark would go.

“C’mon, alpha,” he urged. “Let me have it.” Dean clenched purposefully, and he felt Cas’s rhythm turn erratic. With a final deep thrust, Cas ground his hips hard against Dean, knot finally locking them together as Cas finally convulsed, spilling into the condom.

They collapsed onto their sides, sweating and feeling their hearts race. It felt like hours passed before either of them was able to speak. At last, Cas cleared his throat. “Well, I’m not sure if I should apologize, thank you, or even be a little proud of that,” he said.

“Don’t you dare, no problem, and you should damn well be,” Dean answered, pulling one of Cas’s hands to his mouth and kissing his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few loose ends left, I think. :) (Not discounting the possibility of future timestamps or follow-up stories!)


	20. Thought, Word, and Deed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay; we had a death in our family this weekend (my beloved grandmother), and it's rather messed with my ability to be productive. (Not to mention how it's killing me that I can't actually get there to be with my family.) But here it finally is! Enjoy!
> 
> (This chapter was beta'ed by [NadiaHart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiahart), who saved me from overthinking. Thank you again!)

It was a good thing it was Sunday, because neither of them had any plans for the morning. This was going to require coffee in volumes that would probably result in twitchy nerves for hours. Cas suggested that the discussion might also require bacon; Dean proposed that it didn’t require pants. The negotiations were thus off to an auspicious start, both parties finding agreements on all terms.

“Such a lawyer,” Dean commented, sipping his coffee as he watched Cas scribble on a piece of paper. 

“I did pay good money for people to say so,” Cas answered.

Whenever he felt emotionally conflicted, Dean’s thoughts tended to swarm nebulously, making it difficult to frame any particular starting point. As he sat back now, studying Cas as he placidly covered the sheet with flowing script, a fondly sentimental appreciation for his almost-mate’s talents for focus blossomed in his heart.

That sure was a lot of writing, though.

Rather than a list, Castiel was involved in creating a series of circles and arrows pointing in every direction, like a crazy science class diagram of a molecule. “That's a hell of an art project you've got going there,” Dean said, nodding at the page. 

“Just mind mapping,” Cas said, turning the paper so Dean could see. The large circle in the middle said “MATING BOND” in large, bold letters; stemming out from it were smaller circles, filled with other words: “Work,” “Family,” “History and ‘Baggage’.”

Dean pointed at that last one. “Dude. You actually used air quotes on your chart?”

Playfully, Cas batted at the pointing finger with his pen. “I don’t believe they count as air quotes if they’re written, Dean. Then they’re simply quotes.”

“Whatever, man. I can even hear you saying them when I read that.” Cas raised an eyebrow, and Dean shook his head, grinning. “Okay, keep mapping.”

“Anyway, this is just another a way of organizing a situation or proposal, getting every thought out there without any kind of judgment or need to elevate one concern over another. So, anything you’ve worried about, any concern you’ve had about our bonding or relationship, go ahead and fire away. Once we’ve gotten it all into the open, we can run through and settle them, one at a time.” 

“This is, like, the professional version of pencil and napkin lists, then?”

Cas hummed noncommittally. “I mean, it works more efficiently in a mediation setting, in my experience, but I suspect that success could also be due to how certain types of personalities take things more seriously when there’s color-coding involved.”

They talked. It was slow-going, at first. Initially, Dean struggled with reluctance to voice out loud some of his worries, afraid that Cas might be offended or hurt; some part of him also felt nervous that despite all assurances to the contrary, maybe the next thing he said would be the thing that finally made Cas jolt up with wide eyes, saying, “Wow, you’re right, good thing we didn’t just go for it,” and head for the door. True, Dean hated the thought of watching the man he loved come to resent him eventually, but he also couldn’t help wanting to pretend any scary complications didn’t necessarily  _ have _ to be confronted, either now or later. 

But Cas hadn’t even flinched all through the process, no matter how deep they went. “Spill now, debate later,” he’d insisted, jotting “Children” into its own bubble as Dean chewed at his lip.

By the time they’d exhausted what Dean thought had to be pretty much every issue any couple could possibly ever have to face, Cas’s “molecule” looked more like the map of some fantasy world littered with islands. At some point, the nervousness had fallen away and been replaced with a morbid competitive desire to see just how complicated the chart could become.

“Okay, that was kind of satisfying, but now do we  _ have _ to decide,  _ today, _ which of our weird families would get hypothetical custody of any hypothetical pups we may or may not decide to have, just on the off-chance that something would happen to both of us?” Dean pushed away from the table, standing up to stretch his legs.

“We might have gotten carried away,” Cas acknowledged, smiling ruefully. “No, we don’t. Unless that’s the item standing out in the forefront of your worries about our future, in which case, yes, we should.” He shrugged. 

The only thing standing at the front of Dean’s mind just then was a need for a break. It was probably a good sign, how Cas didn’t need him to say it out loud, pushing his own chair back and reaching his arms to pull Dean close. The meeting was thus temporarily adjourned to the living room sofa, in favor of a good, long, reassuring makeout session. (“I’m in the wrong field,” Dean murmured against Cas’s chest, “if this is what all your work breaks look like.”) 

\---

The second part of the discussion lasted much longer than the first, and it was much less fun. To Dean’s surprise, though, that wasn’t because of arguing, high emotions, or passionate disagreements. Somehow, just the act of putting all those intimidating ideas on paper in the first place had robbed them of a lot of their scary nebulousness. At this point, it was just a matter of being extremely, painstakingly thorough.

“You know, this is sort of the opposite of romantic,” he sighed at one point, poking at the crumbs left over from the BLT sandwiches he’d made them for lunch.

“Maybe,” Cas said, considering. “It’s not movie romantic. But…well, we’re planning a whole future. Doing this, we’re picturing what our life might look like next year, five years from now, ten years…when we’re old, grey-haired men who can’t even look at a banana pepper without getting heartburn. Imagining myself caring for you for our whole lives, with no end in sight—I think that’s pretty romantic, in its own way.”

And that was pretty much the kicker, right there. The bigger reason why all of this was suddenly, magically not so frightening? Dean was right there with Cas, imagining an entire life spinning out in front of them, not shying away from any of the sore spots he’d been hesitant to face. It wasn’t concrete; he wasn’t so naive as to think there was such a thing as a happily ever after, just because they wanted one and were pausing to envision it. But all the hazy, unfilled-in parts felt more like potential than pitfall. They were discussing, and it was  _ working.  _ God damn, communication  _ was _ key, after all!

But Cas still insisted on dotting all the i’s and crossing every single everloving t, f, and unnecessarily fancy z. His biggest concern seemed to be the fear that he was somehow pressuring Dean, a fear born mostly out of seeing other alphas do so without hesitation. It was a little frustrating.

“Look, we’ve established that my body has decided it wants you to stick around and bond. But you’ve gotta trust me when I say that I can tell the differences between my biological impulses and everything else going on in my brain!” Dean argued. “If you respect me, and I know you do, then you can’t keep doubting my word on that.” Cas flushed, ashamed, and Dean stroked the back of his hand, letting him know he wasn’t mad. 

There was even a weird-as-hell impromptu call to Dr. Bradbury thrown into the mix. Dean had suggested putting her on speaker, making it a group discussion, but Cas had been adamantly opposed. “She’s your counselor, Dean, and I won’t risk violating the trust you’ve built with her.” As it turned out, though, the doctor was stunned, falling nearly into stuttering incoherence when Dean explained what the two of them had been up to.

_ “Dean! That’s completely…if every couple went to that point…I’m just…I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d say one of my colleagues put you up to this call, just to mess with me.”  _ She’d been increasingly Team Cas for weeks, admiring how Dean had talked about him and how he seemed to be flourishing personally within their relationship, and this seemed to be the clincher for her.  _ “The fact that you guys are working through this decision logically, without a marriage counselor or me or anyone at all outside of your relationship telling you to, speaks volumes about you guys. Frankly, I don’t even know what to say. If I weren’t so in love with how you’re handling it now, I’d tell you to absolutely go mate that man, right now, blessings upon you. But…you just keep doing what you’re doing! Ah, I want a wedding invitation!”  _

“Well, now we  _ have  _ to bond,” Dean said as he came back into the kitchen, chuckling. “If we don’t at this point, she’s probably going to have me involuntarily committed.”

Cas barked a laugh of his own. “Can’t have that,” he said. “So…is that everything?”

They scanned the paper, now littered with the doodles and markings they’d added together as they worked. Dean’s handwriting, done in blue ink, was less tidy than Cas’s, involving stick figures and symbols as often as words. Between that and the sedate blank ink marks left by Castiel, it had evolved into something practically worthy of being framed, so long as one didn’t examine it too closely and note the part of the diagram devoted to heats and ruts. (Dean had been particularly amused by his illustrations there.)

“I think we’ve covered it,” he said. Looking up, Dean caught Castiel’s eyes and held them. “How are you feeling about it now?”

“Well,” Cas said, letting out a deep breath. “I think…as long as  _ your _ concerns have been addressed, I’m…ready.” His eyes sparkled, and his smile stretched wide as he seemed to hold his breath, waiting.

“Ready? You’re ready? ‘Cause I’m…yeah, I’m ready,” Dean said, his own grin uncontainable.

“Then…then we’re doing it?” Cas leaned slowly over the table toward him, appearing not to realize he was.

“Hell, yeah,” Dean breathed, leaning forward to meet him. A moment later, he stopped himself. “But, uh, not right now?”

“Hmmm?” Cas looked unfocused, confused; he blinked, trying to understand what was happening.

“C’mon, man,” Dean said, shaking his head while still grinning. “This was awesome, and so necessary, but work with me. You can’t just conclude what was pretty much a business meeting by substituting in a bonding bite for a handshake. I may not be the most conventional kind of guy out there, but even I can’t get behind that.”

“Oh,” Cas said, eyes widening in realization. “Oh, no, Dean, you’re completely right. This is far from what I’d want for us, what I’d want for  _ you.”  _ He looked chastened, and Dean rolled his eyes a little. Leaning back, Cas tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “Should we go out tonight and celebrate ahead of time? Maybe go someplace really nice for dinner, then come back to one of our houses after, do the whole candles and music setting? That seems…traditional.” He frowned.

Dean smirked. “See, we finally found the flaw in the great plan. Impromptu mating, you don’t have to worry about setting the perfect scene. But we turned it into this big whole-day planning event instead, and now that we’ve talked about it so much, we’re both  _ thinking _ about it, and the pressure’s on to make it just right.”

“Ugh, of course,” Cas said, groaning theatrically. “There had to be a snag. Everything was going too simply!”

There was no true feeling of discouragement. Too much had been resolved for that to happen at this point. Dean tapped his lips thoughtfully. “How about this? Yes, we go out tonight, mostly because there’s that zombie double-feature at the cineplex I’d already told you I wanted to hit. Dinner sounds good, but nothing fancy. I don’t want to have to worry about table manners when I’m rehashing the best undead killing moments.”

“I’m with you so far,” Cas said, nodding.

“Then we head back to your place, because I’ve been slacking on my plant care lately, and I sort of miss the way the sun hits your bedroom window in the morning.”

“We could skip dessert at the restaurant, since I have some cobbler I can heat up for us.”

Dean rubbed his stomach in anticipation. “Mmm, pie’s country cousin. I’m on board. And then…then we’ll go to bed. If we’re beat, it’ll be for sleep. If we’re not…” He waggled his eyebrows, and Cas snorted. “But that’s all the further we’ll plan. See? We can have our pie and eat it, too! Boom!”

“Dean.” Cas narrowed his eyes, lips twisting wryly. “We’ll both still know it’s coming. That’s not any more impromptu than the first idea. It’s just more  _ us.” _

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to suggest you hide around a corner, then jump out and bite me when I’m least expecting it,” Dean huffed. “After all this, I don’t think we’re going to get a real spur-of-the-moment mating. At this point, every time we start getting handsy, it’s going to pop into our heads!”

“But you still want the idea of surprise.” Cas tilted his head sharply, brow creased. “Being swept off your feet, right?”

“Well, yeah, kinda.” Dean’s cheeks burned, and he dropped his eyes to the tabletop. “Feels all chick flick, if you have to say it out loud.”

“No, it sounds perfect. So, if I were to…” Without warning, Cas stood quickly, stepped to Dean’s side, and pulled him to his feet. In the next moment, he had Dean hoisted into his arms, holding him bridal style. Dean made an undignified noise, throwing his arms around Cas’s neck desperately.

“Hey!” he yelped. “What—I thought we weren’t doing this right now!”

“Who said that’s what we’re doing?” Cas said lightly, striding for the stairs. “I’m working on a theory, so go with me. The stress is coming because we’re focusing on the promise itself instead of on the meaning behind it. If I want to sweep you off your feet—and I do…” He paused to nudge open the door to the bathroom, rather than the bedroom as Dean had expected, with his foot, stepping in and lowering Dean to settle him on the sink counter. “…then I can do that regardless of any other plans or intentions, major or minor.” Taking Dean’s chin in hand, he placed a firm kiss on his lips, closed-mouthed but soft and full of heat. 

As the kiss broke, noses still brushing as they lingered in each other’s space, Dean let his eyes flutter slowly open. “Liking your theory,” he said. Castiel beamed, letting his hands slip down Dean’s sides and along the fronts of his thighs as he stepped away, turning toward the bathtub.

“Then you’ll love the testing and research.”

\---

They were almost late to the movie. Cas made a disgruntled remark about missing the previews as they slid into their seats, but Dean just raised an eyebrow; after all,  _ he _ hadn’t been the one lobbying for a Round Two after they woke from the inevitable nap following their luxurious shared bath (and subsequent thorough defeat of a bath’s primary purpose). For the next three hours, the two of them put all the weight of the day behind them, laughing and groaning over gruesome deaths and equally painful bad acting.

Dean was the one to propose casual Italian food for their late dinner, based solely on the disgusting imagery of messy marinara, and Cas was barely able to catch his breath long enough to agree wholeheartedly. “Can you imagine Sam’s face?” Dean joked, twirling noodles in the vividly red meat sauce. “This is just more proof of why I know we’ll work. You’ve got a strong enough stomach to keep up with me.”

“Or vice versa,” Cas said, spearing a meatball with playfully feigned violence. “I was the first one to play my cards with the spicy food, after all.”

“Kindred spirits, then,” Dean said, raising his glass of beer.

“Or soulmates.” Cas lifted his in answer, and they drank deeply.

Putting his glass on the table and running a thumb over the rim, Dean said, “Never really believed in any of that, though. I mean, come on—one person, in the whole world, and they’re the only one who’ll fit? What if they’re on a completely different continent, or…or, like, raised in a weird commune, and they get married off as a kid before you can even meet?”

“There’s that knack for coming up with strangely detailed hypothetical scenarios, Dean,” Cas laughed. 

“You get what I mean, though.” Dean leaned back in his seat. “Feels like a lack of freedom, too. How is the universe making that decision for you, no other options available, even remotely romantic?” He shook his head. “But, like, finding you, even though the connection might have been there on a basic level, with both biology and personality, was only half of it all. After that, it was all…”

“Intention?” Cas suggested.

“Yeah. And the way we keep talking about stuff, trying to be open.” Dean took Cas’s hand, toying with his fingers. “No matter how this goes, after tonight, I know it’ll be good. We already said yes, so I’m not even worried about the rest.”

Cas just smiled.

\---

Of course, being Dean’s life, he should have known better than to think the sailing would be that smooth.  

Part of Dean wasn’t at all surprised that Cas ended their wonderful date night with a kiss to the back of his neck, rather than a bite, as they snuggled down to sleep. It had been too built up, and he could tell Cas was still considering how to turn the moment into A Moment.

He was a bit more perturbed by the end of the week, during which he had counted at least five potentially good openings for Cas to have made his move, none of which had panned out. And, sure, he could have said something himself, or done more than just subtly (though less so with each opportunity) stretched his neck to the side, baring it temptingly. On the other hand, the thought of having their new bonding start off as a result of having his mate need to be told to “just bite me already” was less than appealing. 

So he waited. And he waited. And he didn’t think Cas had changed his mind or anything, judging by the continued intimacy, both sexual and otherwise, but it was starting to wear on Dean. Sam noticed his increasing edginess, obliquely hinting that, if anything was on Dean’s mind, he was ready and eager to “be a presence” for him. Dean was relieved that he and Cas hadn’t actually said anything, to Sam or any other friends or family members, about their discussion; he rather wished he hadn’t talked about it with Dr. Bradbury, either, since their regular phone call that week had been peppered with unsubtle prompting for details on the subject. He stayed stubbornly mute, for once; the idea of explaining made his pride cringe.

And, anyway, he had a pretty good idea what was going on. Even though he’d  _ thought _ they were on the same page by the end of the conversation, Cas was apparently still stuck on making things  _ perfect.  _ The way he’d catch Dean’s gaze, unreadable thoughts flickering behind his eyes as his scent turned slightly heavier for just a moment, then suddenly pull back as though nothing had happened? Yeah, they knew each other too well at this point for Dean to miss any of those tells.

_ I should probably just say something. _

But he had! He’d been really, really clear, hadn’t he? He didn’t  _ need _ a perfect moment; he didn’t even want the chick-flick setting! He just wanted it to  _ happen. _ And Cas had to know all that, intellectually, which meant…

Which meant Dean needed to make his appeal to the other part of Cas. He needed to override the system, so to speak. 

That decided, he was very glad he had opted not to bring Dr. Bradbury into these deliberations, because he had a feeling she’d not be entirely in favor of the new plan. He could almost hear her, tutting away, reminding him that using his words was always the best path toward getting what he wanted. Yeah, sure; he’d done that, and clearly that was only going to take him so far. Besides, he wasn’t worried; after all, Dean hadn’t been the only one of them to make it plain that everything was essentially settled. Cas had said yes, too.

It was time to put words into action.

\---

“Well, I know you prefer morning runs, and I’m sorry about your alarm clock, but I can’t say I’m too disappointed on your behalf,” Castiel said, satisfaction lining his tone. “Maybe we can compromise, do this once or twice a week? I could perhaps see my way to joining you for one of your pre-dawn runs, in exchange.”

“Maybe,” Dean said evasively. Ugh, running in the evening humidity was awful, especially after a long day of work. He didn’t see how Cas did it. It was a necessary sacrifice, though, and if everything else went as he’d planned it, he’d only need to fake his enjoyment for a short while.

“I ordinarily head north here, up the hill and into town,” Cas said, pointing. “That route goes by Simmon’s Coffee, which is nice if I need water. Shall we?”

Dean bit his tongue; no, that would be a very bad idea tonight. “Eh, my calves are feeling kind of sore. Mind if we avoid the hill, just stick around the neighborhood? There’s that bike path through the woods a couple blocks over, and it loops back and comes out not far from my place if you need a drink.”

“Of course,” Cas said, all solicitousness and care for Dean’s legs, which might have made him feel a little guilty if it didn’t play right into his hands. He had to hide his snicker behind a cough.

The bike path was honestly quite pretty; with a little suspension of belief, you could make yourself believe you were actually in the middle of a deeper forest, rather than skirting the edge of a glorified copse of trees. Kids liked to play hide and seek around it, which meant that there were many trampled “paths” leading away from the main trail, weaving in and out of the shadows. Dean waited until they were about twenty feet into it before casually saying, “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Catch me.” And with that, Dean took off, veering sharply away into the brush.

He didn’t expect to be able to maintain any kind of lead, not based on speed alone. His advantage, the only one he had, was that this time, as compared to the first time he’d run away from Cas, he had an actual goal and a strategy in his head. He heard Cas shout, “Hey!” and spin to follow him; Dean’s heart started pounding hard, only partly due to exertion.

It had worked once before, even if he hadn’t been trying at the time. 

Feeling Cas right behind him, Dean faked a turn to the left, only to grab a nearby tree with one hand and spin around it to head in the opposite direction. His feet slipped on some pine needles as he did, but his hold on the trunk kept him upright, and he laughed out loud when the noises behind him indicated that Cas had had a harder time keeping his feet. “Dean!” came a laughing shout, but Dean didn’t slow down to respond.

He did need to build up a bit of a lead, and he needed to start shaping this into what he wanted it to be, so he skidded back toward the trail, pounding hard along it for a few dozen yard. When he was sure Cas was behind him and had him in view, he called back over his shoulder, taunting, “Come on,  _ alpha.  _ Show me whatcha got!” Then he was off into the thicket once more.

This was playing with fire, he knew. But, oh, how badly he wanted to burn.

Within less than a minute, he began to worry that he’d underestimated his boyfriend’s ability to move under pressure. The panting coming from behind him felt like he should be able to feel it on the back of his neck; all traces of laughter had disappeared, and Cas wasn’t wasting any breath on responding to Dean’s taunts. Dean crossed his fingers and prayed that Cas was less familiar than he was with this little woods. Now, where was it…?

There! The recognizable marking on the fallen trunk—recognizable because Dean had put it there himself, years ago when he was one of the kids haunting these woods—marked the otherwise hidden outlet onto his street. He ran hard, only turning and breaking for the mostly obscured opening when he’d nearly passed it. The feint only gained him a few yards, but he didn’t need much more, he hoped.

He’d left his front door wide open, home security be damned. With the finish line in sight, he risked calling over his shoulder one more time. “Whatcha waiting for,  _ alpha?”  _ That slight emphasis on the word, every time, was a calculated thing, and it was working, Dean could feel it. He could scent it, emphasized by the endorphins, the perspiration, and the frantic pumping of their hearts as they flew along the asphalt.

Barely through the front door, Dean had his shirt over his head, whipping it to the side. He didn’t stop to see where it landed, making for the stairs at what was really an inadvisable pace to run through one’s house. The pictures hanging on the wall rattled dangerously as his feet slapped against the floor. 

He had bare seconds to spare. Dean crossed the doorway into his bedroom, launched himself onto his bed to land on hands and knees, and  _ presented. _

The footsteps trailing dead on his heels froze mid-stride, just inside the door.

For several long heartbeats, there was silence, broken only by the sounds of panting breaths. Finally, Dean lifted his head and looked over his shoulder. Cas looked completely wrecked, far beyond what the chase would have done to him. His eyes were dilated to an unbelievable degree, his chest was heaving, his hair—God, that hair—stood wildly about his reddened face, and his hands were clenching spasmodically at his sides. A small part of Dean actually felt a little bad for him. The far greater part of him rejoiced, feeling the last barriers of restraint slipping away.

“Castiel.  _ Alpha,”  _ he said, hearing the need in his voice and feeling not one bit of shame for it. “You caught me, so  _ take me.  _ I want you to. Now.”

With a cry, Cas lunged for the bed, grabbing Dean by the hips and curling his own body on top; he rolled his hips against Dean’s, making it clear that even more credit needed to be given, since at least part of that mad dash had been hampered by an impressive erection. Dean whined in the back of his throat, pushing himself back against it. Cas was mouthing at the nape of his neck, hands moving to push at his waistband, and Dean felt as though he was about to explode.

For all that Cas had always been prone to talk his way through earlier sexual encounters, mixing sinfully dirty talk with a determined search for approval every step of the way, this time he spared no time for words.  _ Yes,  _ Dean crowed, unable to form the actual word as he bucked into the fingers pushing into him, stretching and thrusting. He had wanted this, asked for this, had made his choice long before. “Please!” he begged. “Please, please, please, Cas.”

There was a moment, then, that Dean had a sudden thought, as Cas pulled back and yanked at his own clothes. He’d probably pushed Cas pretty deep into his own head with all this, and, well, Dean might have forgotten to consider certain technicalities. “Um, hang on,” he said warningly, glancing at the side table.  _ Man, probably should have thought of this before now _ . All signs pointed to Cas being pretty much non-verbal at this point. If he tried, would Dean even be able to hold him off long enough to grab a condom, let alone get it on him?

But he shouldn’t have doubted. Not now, not ever. Proving once more just how absolutely  _ amazing _ his control over his inner alpha was, Cas actually broke through the redness of his haze to  _ listen. _ The response was perhaps the least graceful Dean had ever seen Cas, to be sure, but Cas fumbled the drawer open, grabbed the condom, and had it rolled on in record time. 

Then he was pushing in, one solid thrust seating him deep inside Dean. He didn’t pause before he was pulling back and snapping forward once more, the sound of his hips colliding against flesh loud in their ears. Dean gave up trying to brace himself after only a few thrusts, falling forward onto his elbows and letting Cas give him all he had, taking all that he needed.

It lasted days, or maybe only minutes; time wasn’t relevant anymore, and Dean’s focus had narrowed only to the physical sensations overwhelming him. The hot slide of Castiel’s cock into him, faster and faster, was pushing him to madness; the slam of it directly into his prostate was stealing his breath until he felt faint. When Cas bowed forward over him once more, reaching to wrap a hand around his steadily leaking length, he couldn’t even cry out, so starved of air had he become.

The stretch of his rim grew tighter, and Dean lifted his hips as high as he could, craving the knot he felt coming. Cas groaned, biting at Dean’s shoulder without breaking skin, and then Dean was coming hard, spilling over Cas’s hand onto the sheets.

“Please,” he begged once more when breath returned. He was dizzy, the room was spinning, but he needed to focus, needed…just needed. “Alpha. Yours.”

With a last hard thrust, the knot swelled and locked them together. A sob ripped its way from Castiel’s throat as he trembled and climaxed, and his mouth fell to the side of Dean’s neck, clamping hard on the gland. The pain was sharp, and Dean shouted and shook, but in a flash, his brain was buzzing with indescribable feelings. The disorientation he’d been battling increased dramatically, the room spinning, and he gave up trying to make sense of anything at all, letting himself collapse.

When he roused, a hand was petting through his hair. Cas had managed to ease them onto their sides, and he was mouthing gently at the bite mark between murmured endearments. Realizing Dean was rejoining the world of consciousness, he placed a more deliberate kiss on the sore spot. “How long did it take you to come up with that scheme?” he asked, sounding extremely pleased with the entirety of the world.

“Not long, actually,” Dean said. “I mean, once I decided on the basic idea, the rest seemed pretty obvious. You gave me the idea, that day in the park when you kissed me.”

“Rather risky, though,” Cas said. “You must have been pretty sure of yourself. One wrong step, and our mating could have ended up happening on a public trail, you know.”

Dean had thought of that, of course. “Yeah, but that would have been an interesting story, too. In its own way.” He’d had faith that Cas could have controlled himself before they reached  _ that _ level of predicament, though it would have definitely been unfortunate for everything to fall apart at that point. “You’re an outdoorsy kind of guy, right?”

Cas hummed, little energy left to tease back. “As soon as this knot goes down, I’ll be wanting my own bite. Am I going to have to lead you on a chase around the block to get it?”

“Pshh. Maybe a crawl.” Dean stretched his legs as well as he was able. “Aren’t you glad I kept us from taking the run through town? That coffee shop you mentioned probably wouldn’t have been happy with me, dodging behind tables and chairs to escape.”

“To be sure,” Cas rumbled, kissing his neck again. “Maybe some other time. I’m sure sooner or later, one of us will need to challenge the other. I can think of far less constructive ways of doing it.”

“Yeah.” Dean yawned. “But maybe after a nap… _ mate.” _

The way Castiel’s arms wrapped tighter around him, cocooning him in love, security, and everything good he’d ever known or dreamed, was amazing. “Wise choice, Dean,” he heard, just before his eyes fluttered closed and he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it doesn't have to be over, does it? I'm not saying that, certainly. If you have any specific requests or suggestions for timestamps (or even a sequel, though that might be later in coming), please send them my way! Come discuss over at my Tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr; I'm [Carrieosity](http://carrieosity.tumblr.com).


End file.
